


An Unquenchable Flame

by TrulyCertain



Series: An Unquenchable Flame [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study-ish, F/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-03-07 04:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 43,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3160400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>She winces and tries desperately to correct people when they call her "Herald". If he were a crueller man, he’d find it amusing.</i> </p><p>A cynical, awkward mage who lost her faith a long time ago, a worn-down ex-templar and an unlikely friendship. The Inquisitor and her commander, through each other’s eyes and those of the Inquisition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things don't get off to the best start.

Here’s how the bards will tell it: she stepped out of the rift already an icon, a hero. She was painted in greens with every flicker of the Mark, and her eyes shone with purpose. It was like something you’d see on a Chantry window.

The truth is a little different. Yvaine Trevelyan was found after she'd staggered into the waking world, sobbing and half-dazed with pain, and then collapsed in an undignified heap.

And whether the world was prepared for it or not, something began.                     

* * *

He looks up from the supplies he’s checking, tensing when he sees that Cassandra has swept into his tent. Everyone has heard tales of her – ones that differ greatly. She’s either a heroic dragon-slayer, wise and brave, or something to scare small children and slacking templars. Perhaps both, he thinks now that he knows her. She probably should have warned him rather than simply striding into his makeshift “office,” but she doesn’t seem the sort of woman to be hesitant about many things. She cuts an imposing figure, and there’s a gleam to her armour even in dim candlelight.

 “You saw what happened at the Conclave,” she begins.                                    

Of course he did. He was there when the sky split open and everything became bathed in green. He saw the horrors that climbed out of the rifts, and he watched too many of his men die in an impossible attempt to hold the line. He had to see them being slaughtered, terrified and barely comprehending, while trying to pretend that his hand wasn’t shaking on his sword and nausea wasn’t rising in his throat.

He raises his eyebrows, only saying, “We all saw what happened at the Conclave.”                          

“It has changed things.” He hears what must be the hint of a sigh, and then she straightens. “ _She_ has changed things.”

Ah, the supposed Herald of Andraste. It doesn’t sit comfortably on his tongue. It feels rather too close to blasphemy, and the Chantry still has its claws in him enough that that bothers him.

Cassandra tells him, “We hoped that we would not have to do this, but the Divine is dead, and the Chantry is still too busy squabbling over a successor to deal with The Breach. It affects us all. Something must be done.”

He’s familiar enough with Chantry history to know what she’s suggesting – he is ( _was)_ a templar, after all. Even so, the prospect is somewhat of a shock. “You’re speaking of an Inquisition?” They are things of legend, of history. He never thought he’d see one in this day and age.

“I am.” She pauses, and he can see in her face that she’s attempting to find the right words. It’s a problem he’s perhaps overly familiar with. He waits, trying his best to appear attentive, until she says, “Your work has been invaluable. We will need someone to lead our men, and I put your name forward.”

Rather than focusing on that flattering, if intimidating, offer, he asks the first question that comes to mind. “You have men?”

Her slight hesitation is there and gone before he can acknowledge it. “We will. And you will help us recruit them.”

“If I join you.” He hesitates and stares down at the poultices and bandages he’s arranging. The spectre of Kirkwall still looms over him in many ways, and rebuilding has been more than difficult. There’s still much work to be done, in some ways. Yet the thought of returning, of pretending he wants to represent the Order and what it stands for after all that’s happened... He can’t help but air his other concern. “Surely there’s someone better-equipped – “

“Cullen,” she insists. “I saw what happened in Kirkwall, and I’ve seen you here. There is no-one I’d rather ask. You wanted to stop this war. This may be how we can.”

He has spent the past few days either fighting for his life or watching Chantry bureaucrats squabble. And the templars have been worse, festering and rotting from the inside. He’s known he has to leave the Order one way or another, and for all intents and purposes, he had by accepting this assignment – this will only seal the decision. She’s right. Something has to be done, and it seems that most of Thedas is too busy contemplating its own navel to pay attention to what might be the end of the world.

If his years with the Chantry have taught him anything, it’s that an Inquisition means _change_. Perhaps drastic, perhaps not entirely welcome, but change all the same. He remembers the man he was in Kirkwall – ineffectual, straining against the leash of his own hatred and then Meredith’s – and represses a grimace.

This could be an answer to the Breach or a disastrous failure. Either way, he has to try.

He nods, looking her in the eye. “If you’re certain, I’ll be glad to offer my aid.”

For what may well be the first time, he sees Cassandra smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Then without further ado she’s gone, probably to frighten more people into joining their brand new Inquisition. He can’t help but smile at the thought. He likes her. She’s refreshingly direct.

The smile falls as another spasm of pain seizes him. He exhales slowly, clenching his fist until his knuckles are almost the colour of the snow outside. There is still enough lyrium in his blood that the stuff sings to him sometimes, when he’s been alone for too long. It will fade. He’s heard it from others in a similar situation, and he chooses to believe it, reciting it like a prayer.

_It will fade._

Even so, he finds his gaze falling to the bag he keeps some of his personal belongings in – and with them the wooden box, so small but so dreadfully significant.

_Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked..._

The Chant. He must be truly desperate. He shakes his head, rising to his feet and heading outside. To supervise the troops, he tells himself, and not because he needs to be away from temptation, if just for a little while.

* * *

Yvaine hasn’t believed in the Chant for a long time; it offers her no solace.

Except... she sees them, and for one startling moment she can understand it. What the Chantry was meant to be. Protector, leader, showing people the way to the light and offering them hope.

Cassandra is rather terrifying, but also steady and beautiful in her certainty, a knight like something from out of the old stories. She speaks of what the Chantry should be, could be. Her eyes shine, and the shield she carries with her – no, not the one made of wood and metal – falls for a moment. In those moments, Trevelyan can almost believe. She realizes then that the Chant was meant to be a promise to mankind, and that some are endeavouring still to keep it.

Cullen, unflinching and tall and. Well. _Built like a brick wall_ , something in her mind mutters. It’s the kind of thing she might have said out loud, before all this. Before the Mark and the big bloody tear in the sky, and before _prisoner_ became _saviour_. He says he’s no longer a templar, and she’s unsure whether to believe him – something in his bearing, the way he wears armour like it’s a second skin and bristles at the mention of the rebel mages, says otherwise. And then she hears it, behind his terseness: a quiet, exhausted wit.

“A pleasure,” she says to her advisers, offering them each a tentative smile. Leliana is sharp-eyed, shrewd behind her friendliness, and Josephine is moving faster than she can keep up, speaking of alliances, of gathering allies...

She tries her best to keep up with a conversation that seems more about her that involving her, feeling stupid and adrift. She hasn’t slept in a day and a half. Even though they’re mostly healed, her ribs are killing her. She’s been told that particular pain is from her landing, when she emerged from the rift, but she doesn’t remember. She doesn’t remember anything. She doesn’t even know why she’s here. The Mark, certainly, but that’s all. The rest of her doesn’t matter to them. Why is she in their war room, being treated as if her opinion carries any weight?

When she hears the name, she tenses. She can’t help herself; her tongue too often races ahead of her brain, and that rarely made her popular at balls full of nobles when she was a child. “The Herald of Andraste? _That’s_ what they’re calling me?” She can barely stop herself from stuttering.

The commander’s gaze is appraising. A strategist, she thinks, already wondering how to deal with her. When he asks her how she feels about it, she shrugs, unable to keep herself from speaking the truth. “It’s, well. It’s rather unsettling.” She stares at her hands so that she won’t have to look at the room full of people counting on her, blaspheming in her name. Her legs are shaking.

“I’m sure the Chantry would agree.” He says it with a half-laugh, one that tells her the thought isn’t entirely displeasing to him. It’s gone before she knows quite what to make of it – in no time at all he’s back to scanning the map, his brow furrowed. Though he’s coping with it far better, practical where she’s panicking, he too speaks like he’s wondering what in the Fade is going on. It’s strangely honest, she can’t help thinking, and it makes her sneak a second look. He meets her gaze, that implied assessment still there, as if he’s waiting for her next move.

Honest, and confusing.                                                                                                

What does matter is his current title. Commander. It fits him better than he knows.He’s imposing, though she’s not sure how aware of it he is: straight-backed and serious, with a tendency to be terse. His brow’s permanently creased in either thought or agitation, and he unconsciously phrases much of what he says like it’s an order. Trevelyan’s uncertain what to make of him – he seems a soldier through and through, and it intimidates her. She tries to seem brave, to seem solid, to seem enough, but when pressed, she knows that she’ll tease and joke, find sarcasm a good refuge too much of the time. She's spent enough time in the Circle that sombre, armoured types unsettle her.

Her parents would probably like him. That’s far from a reassuring thought.

* * *

The first time he sees her, he wonders if she has some sort of ailment. She’s strangely pale. Not just her skin, either, which has that waxy pallor so characteristic of Circle mages, but her hair. It’s blonde, falling nearly to her shoulders, and it only serves to make her seem even more wan. She looks as if the sun’s never touched her. An hour outside, and she’d probably burn. Her worryingly sharp cheekbones cast shadows onto her face in the candlelight. A dark slash of colour draws his attention - she’s used some sort of paint on her lips, staining them the shade of plums – and he notices the lines of a faded tattoo under one eye, across her brow. They’re stark against the whiteness of her skin.

She looks exhausted. Even as she pledges to help the cause and looks the four of them over, her eyes are slightly unfocused. She’s probably still recovering from what happened at the Temple; he hears that she spent three days unconscious, the strange mark on her hand burning brightly and almost continuously. She isn't swaying on her feet, not quite, but it wouldn't surprise him if she began to. With the way she looks and the things he’s heard of her – a noble, then an Ostwick Circle mage – he wonders if she’s used to fighting, or to this much exertion at all.

She’s a tall woman, slim but strong-looking round the shoulders. That reminds him almost of some of his recruits, but her posture is different – rather than standing tall, she slouches slightly, as if endeavouring to make herself appear smaller. She cocks her head, obviously listening to them but not interjecting. When they focus on her, she consciously straightens her spine and raises her chin. Her voice is unexpectedly confident when she speaks, though she sounds as if she’s taken pains to think through her answers before saying them.

Half her responses are more questions, as if she’s gathering intelligence and testing her bounds. When she thinks they aren’t looking, her eyes seem drawn to the door, and he wonders if she’s calculating her odds of making an escape.

Yet she says that she will do what she can for the inquisition, insisting that the Breach needs to be closed, and she’s so sincere as to be almost painfully earnest. He’s not quite sure what to make of that, or, in fact, of her.

* * *

She returns from the Hinterlands with blood on her boots and no energy left in her. Varric and Solas head off to rest, and she’s exchanging words with Cassandra when she sees it.

The shine of sun on steel plate. She turns her head to see its source. He’s there, the commander of the Inquisition’s armies. He briefly catches her eye, knowing she’s spotted him. She supposes she could turn away, pretend she hasn’t seen him, but that would be rude, and besides, she’s curious. She finds herself picking her way through the troops, listening to him issuing orders. Busy busy busy, as always.

 The thing is, he’s good. He doesn’t nitpick unnecessarily – he watches, and he guides, and the flaws he corrects are ones she only sees after he’s pointed them out.  They’re not always the biggest or most obvious, but they’re easily enough to get someone killed. Observant, then. The men look to him with amusement, occasionally, when his frustration threatens to get the better of him, but a solid respect, too. Well-liked, that tells her. That’s also a good thing.

She’s surprised when he takes her aside, rather than dismissing her or asking to see her in the war room later. He’s highly in demand, after all. He’s still tall, but more approachable when he isn’t on the other side of a war table.

She recalls the last time they saw each other, the strange scene outside the Chantry. His denial when he was called Knight-Captain. _We are not templars any longer._ She’ll freely admit that it took her aback. 

She can’t help but ask, “I take it the walls haven’t fallen down around your ears yet? No riots in the camp?” She remembers his argument with the Chancellor, the way he had to physically step between the mage and templar recruits, and thinks that it’s a wonder.

 “No,” he sighs, “though believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.”

She smiles at him. “I’m impressed. Perhaps there’s hope for the Inquisition after all.” There’s a moment where he seems surprised. She’s been careful so far, afraid of stepping into the middle of too many arguments. Trevelyans are taught early to give carefully diplomatic non-answers, and she wonders whether his pause is due to her showing some semblance of actual personality.

She hears the words _I was in Kirkwall_ , and his wariness regarding the rebel mages suddenly makes sense. Even mages lost faith in their own kind when they heard what had transpired: certainly, the insane demands of the Knight-Commander brought the city to its knees, but so did a crazed abomination who killed innocents on holy ground, who started a war – and who did so in their name. She’s chewing that over, ready to ask about it, but she finds herself distracted when he starts to talk of the change the Inquisition could bring about.

He lights up. There’s something almost boyish in his enthusiasm as he gets into his stride, and she’s reminded of some of the apprentices, the way they spoke of the Conclave: an end to war, new hope. After talking to Cassandra, she’s beginning to wonder if there’s something they put in the water at the Chantry, something that breeds idealists. She can almost see it, when she listens: a vast force, and... a solution. The last kind of power she ever had was as a noble’s daughter, and then the Circle happened, and even that was taken away. Here? Maybe here she can make a difference. Maybe she really can close the Breach, and that thought scares her as much as it intrigues her...

“Forgive me. You didn’t ask for a lecture.” He ducks his head, and the moment’s gone. He’s sheepish, she realizes, and there’s something vulnerable in the flash of his neck, the way he briefly hesitates meeting her eye.

She stares at him. That wasn’t... Enthusiasm made him someone who tries not to talk with his hands so much but clearly fails, someone bright-eyed with the power of an ideal. Someone understandable.

 “No,” she replies, “but if you’ve one prepared, I’d love to hear it.” She finds a grin tugging at her lips, much against her better judgement, though that fades when she realises that it almost sounded like she was -  flirting. Oh, shit.

She waits for him to cut her off, to snap something about how there’s hardly time for that, but instead, something far more unexpected happens. “I, ah...” There’s a pink tinge to his ears, his cheeks, and she watches it spread with more than a little amazement. He smiles, and she suddenly realizes that he’s younger than she supposed - young to have such power, to be overseeing so many. His rank and the tiredness round his eyes have been deceptive. He seems to search for words. “There’s still much work ahead,” he begins, and seems almost relieved when one of the troops interrupts to give him a report. “As I was saying...” He starts to head off, eyes on the report.

“Commander?”

He turns, his face questioning.

“Do you really think that? That the Inquisition could do so much?”

“Yes,” he says, simply, “I do.” Even he seems a little surprised by his own conviction.     

He leaves her shivering in his wake, the weight of responsibility heavy on her shoulders.


	2. Names

She returns from more business in the Hinterlands, and walks into Haven quietly, with an utter lack of fanfare. She nods to him as she passes, offering him something approximating a polite smile, then she’s gone.

A meeting in the war room is called several minutes later. She listens to them argue over how to deal with some blustering noble who’s been spreading rumours about the Inquisition. The man wants reassurance. That reassurance will cost them time, money and, if things go wrong, troops. She raises a hand to her mouth in thought, and when she takes it away, he sees a few small smears of purple on her fingers. He opens his mouth to say something before thinking better of it, returning his gaze to the table.

“I agree with the commander on this.”

He looks up from the maps in surprise. She will occasionally chip in with some suggestion or other, but it’s quite rare. Usually, she’s happy to watch them run in circles until they reach a satisfactory conclusion. He also abruptly realizes that he hasn’t asked her in so many words to call him Cullen. It would probably be fair to, but so far he’s only called her _Herald_ , for lack of a better title, and after her poorly-disguised wincing, he tried _my lady._ That didn’t seem to reduce the wincing. Maybe she thinks that they aren’t on first name terms. He doesn’t know, and now isn’t the moment to give it much thought.

When she seems to notice that he’s waiting for her to continue, she says, “We need to give the impression of being involved with the people. That’s what keeps the Chantry’s foothold, and we should do the same. Sending a few agents into dark corners either gains us nothing by way of renown, or makes us look untrustworthy if we’re discovered.” Seeing Leliana’s raised eyebrow, she adds, “And yes, I know just how unlikely that is. They’re _your_ agents, after all.” Her voice is strong, and the shiftiness he saw after their first meeting seems completely gone. She glances to Josephine. “Sending a letter would work if we were more established, but as it stands, we’ll seem apathetic.” Finally, her eyes land on him. He’s distantly aware that he’s tensing and waiting for her judgement. “Sending a force shows that we view the nobles as a priority, and it can be used as intimidation if he tries anything... inadvisable.” She offers Cullen a nod across the war table.

After a few moments where there seems to be no further protest, he returns it. “Thank you, Herald.”

She gives him a quick smile, no more than the briefest flash of teeth against dark paint, and then they’re onto the next matter. She’s soon siding with Josephine, obviously trying to find a polite way to tell him he’s being a bull-headed idiot.

If she’s called upon for her opinion, she always seems slightly surprised. Then she seems to feel the need to ask at least seventeen questions to be certain she knows of all her options and she hasn’t missed anything. She acts as though she doesn’t feel she belongs here – as if it will soon be proven that she’s an imposter. He’s certain Josephine and Leliana have noticed it too. In the moments where she forgets that, however, when there is no time for self-consciousness because an opinion is needed _now,_ she is confident and professional. He wonders if she’s noticed.

* * *

_Yvie,_

_What’s all this I hear about an Inquisition? And have you heard what they’re calling you? Do you actually believe all that?_

_Mother and Father are shitting nails, unsurprisingly. To be honest, I think they were expecting something like this – first their eldest turns out to be a mage, then she ends up working for a heretical organisation. In their eyes, I’m not sure there’s that much difference between the two, though there’s been a definite increase in panicked praying recently._

_I’m just glad you’re safe. We were all afraid when we heard about the Conclave, no matter what you might think._ _I would have sent you chocolates or some other frippery, but it’s a long journey from Ostwick and I doubted anything would keep._

_I’ve been hearing some strange stories about you recently. Do you really have a green mark on your hand? And is it something to do with what’s happening in the sky? Maker, you always manage to get yourself tangled up in the weirdest things._

_I’ve heard other things, too. For instance, that commander – he’s one of the Kirkwall templars, isn’t he? Is he really like in_ The Tale of the Champion _? More importantly, is he “an imposing man with blond curls and dark, intense eyes that had seen too much”? (Page 142, if you must know.) If he is, would you mind introducing me to him? I have, you might say, a vested interest. Ahem._

_I’ve been hearing mixed things about this Inquisition, but I trust you, so it’s you I’ll listen to. Good luck with inquisiting things. (Is that right? I suspect it isn’t. Inquiring?) I hope we can see each other soon. Maker turn his gaze upon you and keep you safe._

_Your loving sister,_

_Emmeline_

* * *

No-one can say she doesn’t talk to him. She asks him about how the troops are doing, about the Inquisition, and he’s nothing but obliging. She just can’t _read_ him, and it’s frustrating her. When he isn’t actively giving orders, he’s reserved, and stoic to a fault. Some could mistake that for boring, but she knows better – she knows that templars are trained to hide what’s going on in their heads, and she knows the mages that spent their time in the library and worked constantly were often the most interesting. It just takes time and patience to peel away the defences of someone like that, and they’re both so busy. She gets to speak to him less than she wants to, and when she does, she has no idea what to make of him. Every step forwards seems to be accompanied by two back. She asks about the Blight, and he politely but firmly changes the subject.

They’re standing, watching the troops practising. She knows that duty will call them away from each other soon enough, but while she has his attention, she asks, “I know this is probably an odd question, but... do you really believe I’m the Herald?”

He looks at her, again with that steady, assessing gaze. Then he sighs. “I believe that you might be able to close the Breach. I hope that will be enough. As for the rest... I’ll admit my scepticism.”

She keeps her eyes are on the troops, but a half-smile is hovering around the edges of her mouth. She can’t help it.

“Why?” he asks, “Do you?”

She searches for a way to tell him. Eventually, she just shakes her head and says, “No-one’s swollen-headed enough to assume they’re the Maker’s chosen, surely.”

“From what I’m hearing, you certainly aren’t.”

She raises a hand to look at the Mark. “This is the reason I’m here. I can close rifts. That’s all. I wish people would stop pretending otherwise.”

He seems surprised, and then he looks out to the horizon rather than at her. It’s probably because she’s said the uncomfortable truth that everyone’s been thinking. She feels sorry for saying anything; it’s probably put him in a hopelessly awkward position. After a few uncomfortable seconds, he says, “Do you think that that’s the only reason?”

“I do. Well, that and spreading the ‘Herald of Andraste’ myth.”

“You say that as if I’ve approved of it,” he points out.

She looks at him then, and her smile becomes a genuine, if small, one. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve noticed you haven’t.” It’s her turn to gaze at the sickly green of the Breach. “It’s refreshing, if I’m honest.”

He opens his mouth, obviously about to ask something, but then a messenger catches his eye. “I... one moment.”

She shakes her head. “I should really be on my way. Thank you for putting up with me.” He frowns at that, but she’s walking over to Cassandra before he can complete the thought, a little afraid of what he might say in response.

* * *

He thinks that she’s surprisingly modest, considering the stories that follow her. She winces and tries desperately to correct people when they call her _Herald._ If he were a crueller man, he’d find it amusing.

She does small things, kindnesses that some would consider unnecessary, while she’s out closing rifts. Stories spread of the Herald of Andraste herself giving meat and blankets to the Crossroads refugees. When she returns to Haven, he hears of her finding some notes for the herbalist, simply because he asked and she thought they might be useful for the Inquisition.

They’re in the war room one day and she’s smoothing out the maps, frowning down at them, when he realizes that her hands aren’t those of a noble. They’re as pale as the rest of her, but her nails are bitten-down. He wonders if it’s a symptom of worry. She has callouses from handling a staff, and there are two scars next to the base of her thumb. One of them is long, stretching to her wrist; it was probably a deep gash when it was first inflicted. Her hands speak of hard work, and they look far more like his or his recruits’ than he would have expected.

He finally has to admit it: he’s rather impressed.

* * *

She’s sitting in a table in the darkest corner of the tavern she can find, nursing a tankard. She didn’t miss the stares as she came in; she can still feel the odd glance, like cold water down her spine, but people mostly seem to have forgotten about her now. It’s a relief.

And then she hears it:                                            

“Yeah, but... Commander Cullen, though.” It’s said with the hint of a sigh, a dreaminess creeping into the speaker’s tone.

Yvaine sneaks a glance at the owner of the voice. A female recruit, still in armour. Fereldan, by the sound of it. Three other recruits are sitting at her table – two women and one man – sit with her. Yvaine turns back to her drink, trying to suppress a laugh.

“What of it?” one of the other women pipes up. “He seems a good man.”

“That’s one word for it,” the first woman replies. “They should just put him on the recruitment posters. They’d get people running to the gates.”

Yvaine supposes he’s quite handsome by most standards, now that she’s had to think about it. Not really her type.

“With flowers,” the lone man chips in. “Drooling.” He’s a Marcher. It’s nice to hear _something_ familiar in this place, Yvaine can’t help but think.

The first woman scoffs. “You’re one to talk, Merrick.”

“Shut up. He still thinks I’m terrified of him.”

“That’s because you can’t look him in the face without going five shades of red.”

“Might be that, yeah.” Yvaine can _hear_ his shrug, much to her amusement.

“Just say it’s the cold,” the last woman says. “Tell him it makes you overcompensate. Like, your face has to heat the rest of your body.”

“Shut up,” the one that must be Merrick mutters. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

Part of her is tempted to tell Cullen – without naming names, of course; she’s not that cruel – just to see his face. However, he seems completely, hilariously unaware of the effect he has on people, and it might interfere with his command if he can’t even meet the eyes of his recruits.

It becomes a regular thing when she’s in Skyhold: she takes a shadowed table, she nurses a drink, and she listens. This is the Inquisition, not the pieces and maps of the war room – this needs just as much attention. Morale, people. She’d like to help, in small ways, but she wonders if it would be crossing lines. So she listens instead, tries to keep herself apprised of what’s going on. She pretends it feels like she’s doing enough.

* * *

When she asks about the templar order, he takes the bait, surprising them both in the process. There’s curiosity in her eyes and in her stance. He supposes she’s had few chances to ask about these things. Templars aren’t exactly known for being approachable.

And then he says something that makes her look at him askance. He mentions his studies in the Chantry.

“Did you have to study Drakon as well?” she asks.

 Ah. Now this he understands. “We did, as I recall. Was it as bad for you?”      

She widens her eyes comically, and he tries not to stare. It’s such an odd, immature little thing – not what he’d expect from the quiet, nervous woman in the war room at all. “Awful,” she says. “Orlais this, Orlais that...” She sighs. “He was good with a sword and he knew his scripture. That was all. That can take you a long way in the Chantry, but, well.” She seems to realize she’s talking to a former templar, and that he’s watching her ramble with barely concealed amusement. She sighs, seeming appalled at what's come out of her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

Now he lets his smile break through, and he shakes his head. “Not at all. I’m sure a lot of Chantry initiates would agree with you. I certainly did.” His eyes return to the troops, and after a moment, he says, “I’m rather rusty on certain verses, but I have a reasonable knowledge of the Chant. And I should hope I’m good with a sword, or I doubt I’d be here.”

She raises a hand to her face, grimacing, and a silence falls. “I really am...” she begins.

He’s smiling – truly smiling. It feels strange on his face; his cheeks almost ache with it.

She drops her hand to watch him. “You’re enjoying my mortification, aren’t you?”

“Observing it, perhaps.” He makes a valiant attempt at straightening his face. “I apologize.”

 “You said you were thirteen when you joined the order?”

The question comes out of nowhere, and he’s not entirely sure how to respond. “I did.” That was earlier, however. “Why?”

“I was just thinking that, well. It still seems awfully young, but maybe I can understand, in a way.” She raises her hands to her arms, as if she’s hugging herself, and she watches the soldiers, not him.  “I was twelve when I was taken to the Circle.”

“Oh.” He sounds like a fool, but in actuality he hesitates because he knows he should choose his words carefully. He finds himself looking elsewhere as well, more than a little worried about what he might find in her face. “I had wondered. It’s not unusual for magic to manifest at that age.”

“Did you ever have to take people? With the other templars?”

He’s honest with her – he feels he owes her that. “A few times.  Not many. They tended to leave that duty to the elder templars. They thought that the novices might be, uh, compromised by their sympathy. It was difficult, when children were involved.”

“Yes,” she replies, “I imagine it was.” She’s still looking at the troops. There’s a tension around her shoulders, and her voice is toneless. He is certain that very shortly, she’ll make some excuse to leave. He cannot leave things like this.

“I often wonder whether it was the right thing to do.” The admission surprises him. “I thought so at the time, but I find myself... questioning things, these days. I’m not sorry I left the Order.” That, too, surprises him. He has thought about it near-constantly – well, that and the lyrium – since he joined the Inquisition. He still understands in some ways what templar life has to offer a man, but he’s glad he’s here.

“Neither am I.” He does look at her then, her words taking him aback. She says, “It seems like the Inquisition has gained an excellent commander.” She turns to look over her shoulder at the gates. “I should go. Perhaps we can speak later?”

He nods out of habit, and before he can make any reply to her odd compliment, she’s halfway up the slope. Andraste’s sword, why must she make these things so difficult?

* * *

_Dear Emmeline,_

_The Inquisition is... complicated, but be assured that we’re on the side of good. The Chantry hates us, but that’s mostly because we’re showing them up by actually doing_ _something. Yes, I’ve heard what they’re calling me. No, I don’t believe it, yes, it’s dreadfully embarrassing and I wish it would stop. Please don’t start addressing your letters to “the Herald,” or I may just have to go and fry something._

_“Unsurprising” is exactly the right word. I wish I had more to say, but too much of it is like picking at an old wound – I don’t think it would achieve anything._

_Trust me, I’m glad I’m alive too, and it’s nice to be thought of. I will imagine the chocolates. I am imagining eating them as I write, in fact. You sent me the strawberry ones. You have excellent taste._

_I’m glad to see that you’re prioritizing the important information in this time of crisis. Well, he says he was at Kirkwall. He’s blond, Varric got that right, and he’s a big bugger, too. You’d have to ask him about the curls, though. It seems... vaguely wavy? Maybe he puts something in it? And he does sometimes look rather sad when he thinks no-one’s watching. “Seen too much” might be a good way of saying it, yes._

_Good. And I’m not entirely sure. “Inquisitioning”? No, that sounds terrible._

_Good. I hope so, too. It’s been too long._

_Stay safe. I love you._

_Yvaine_

* * *

Leliana and Josephine needle him constantly. Certainly, he isn’t as silver-tongued as they are, but he’s sharp. He’d have to be, considering his rank. He’d have to be, considering he’s still alive, after all that’s happened. She listens to his advice, hears him command his men, and knows that.

She grins when she finally gets it. She’s met a few Fereldans in her lifetime, and him? He is one of the mostFereldan people she’s ever met: the accent, how stupidly hardworking he is, and... the low tolerance for bullshit. More and more, she suspects it isn’t that he can’tplay the Game – it’s that he won’t. The difference amuses her.

* * *

He’s in the tavern, negotiating supplies of ale for the troops. Some of them will be setting off soon to do work on the Storm Coast. He’s been on such journeys before; things like this aren’t just a matter of necessity, but of morale.

“With all due respect, commander,” the barmaid – Flissa, that was her name – says, “you haven’t seen this lot. You may need a few more barrels.”

He looks around the tavern, considering, and he’s about to turn back to Flissa when he glimpses blonde hair and dark lips. He frowns, certain his eyes must have deceived him, but when he turns his head, there she is. The Herald. Many would miss her – she sits in the shadows, away from the rest of the drinkers here. She probably doesn’t want to be disturbed. He’s prepared to pretend he hasn’t seen her, but she spots him, raising her eyebrows in acknowledgement.

He says to Flissa, “How much do you suppose they can carry without it spoiling too quickly?”

She details something approaching a plan, and they reach an agreement. He hovers there a moment longer, unsure whether Trevelyan will want to be bothered by him. It would probably be rude to just leave, wouldn’t it? He isn’t sure. “Excuse me,” he says to Flissa, and he makes his way to the Herald’s corner.

She looks up. “Commander,” she says in surprise, and he wonders whether he’s made a misjudgement. “I should probably offer you a drink.”

“It probably wouldn’t be wise,” he says. “I have a lot of work to do.”

“As do I,” she replies. “I’m returning to it in a few minutes. I just needed a moment to breathe.”

However, rather than returning to his work, he draws the other chair and sits in it, something made more awkward by his armour. “I was wondering if there was anything you wished to discuss.” He wasn’t, actually, but he feels he needs a reason to be here. “If not, I can go.”

“Nothing in particular.”

They sit there awkwardly, both of them aware why they’re in a quiet corner all but hiding. This isn’t really their place: she’s rapidly becoming some sort of myth, and he isn’t the sort to force his troops to drink with him. He can feel the divide between them and the rest of the tavern’s customers.

“In that case...” He’s about to stand and leave when he finds himself instead asking, “Hold on. You’re from the Ostwick Circle, aren’t you?”

She nods, and then says, “I’ve received many compliments on how I handle a staff,” smirking at him fiendishly and doing something odd with her eyebrows.

He’s heard she flirts like she breathes. He’s used to seeing it – it was a language and a currency of its own in the Circle, an easy way of gaining approval with other mages. Or taking the templars down a peg. He remembers his own blushing nervousness, and how he’d kept his post, sweaty-palmed beneath his gauntlets, thinking that he probably looked like an overgrown boy in the armour. There was less of it in Kirkwall, where limitations were tighter, but it was still a constant undercurrent. Still, he’s only heard of her doing it – from Varric, and on one very memorable occasion a pained-looking Cassandra. It seemed inconsistent with the reserved, sometimes overly serious mage he'd seen.

He prays the low light of the tavern is doing something to hide the way his cheeks are colouring, but he finds his lips are twitching, too. “That was awful,” he tells her honestly, but it comes out with the hint of a laugh.

“I’m glad you liked it,” she starts. “I do work to...” The Mark flickers and grows in brightness. She stops, gritting her teeth. She shuts her eyes a moment, releasing a tight exhale. Then she’s making an effort to regain her smile and act as though nothing has happened. “...to please.”

He’s rather preoccupied with what he just saw to respond in kind. “Does it pain you?” he asks.

She pretends to miss the point. “My sense of humour? Yes.”

He raises an eyebrow, just _looks_ at her. “I’m not sure ‘wilfully obtuse’ suits you.”

“Sometimes it hurts,” she admits after a pause. “I’m getting used to it.” She raises her drink to her lips again, and he sees smudges of colour on the rim of the tankard. “But to answer your question, yes, I’m from the Circle. Why do you ask?”

“You must be unused to this amount of travelling,” he says. “I’ve had similar problems myself. I was stationed in Kirkwall for ten years.” He looks around him. “It’s strange being here again.”

“You haven’t seen Ferelden in ten years?” She sounds sympathetic, if a little shocked.   

“So much has changed. I can’t say I’ve missed it, in some ways.”

“I’m sure if I went to Ostwick again, some things would have changed beyond recognition. It’s not as if I’ve been away long, but with how fast the war moves... nothing is the same anymore.”  She looks as if she’s about to say something, then hesitates. When he gives her a questioning look, waiting for her to carry on, she says, “I’ve been thinking of what you said about templars and mages.How they weren’t really allowed to understand each other. And then there’s what you said about the Inquisition. It’s strange to hear that from a former Knight-Captain.”

He frowns at her. “What did I say, exactly?”

“It sounds like you’re a templar who just wants templars and mages to be friends.”

He represses a harsh laugh. Maybe a long time ago, it was that simple. Before Ferelden, before Kirkwall. That boy no longer exists. “A former templar,” he reminds her. That seems significant now, and it buys him time to search for the right words. “I think the Order has failed mages. This war has shown that more starkly than ever. And I do think there needs to be reform.”

“Maker, commander, you sound like some sort of filthy moderate.” She says it laughingly, without any sort of sting. She sighs, her cheer leaving her. “We were always taught to keep our distance from templars. I do wonder if” – she takes her tankard, looking into it – “some of them were like you. Maybe if we’d spoken to them more, we could have known.” She shrugs. “Maybe if we’d spoken to them more, this war wouldn’t have happened.”

“I’ve wondered similar things.” He clears his throat. “I should return to my duties.” He gets to his feet.

“Right. I should too.” She drains her drink, standing. “I’ll see you later, Cullen.”

They go their separate ways, and it’s only when he’s nearly back at his post that he realizes she used his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've simplified the war table mission and played around with the dialogue order, mainly for reasons of story flow. Hopefully I haven't butchered things too much,


	3. Faith

It’s too late for her to be of any use, and most of Haven is asleep. Cassandra finds her steps taking her to the Chantry. Prayer is rarely something she indulges in – the Maker needs her sword, her hands, not her hope. She doesn’t often allow herself time to reflect, afraid that is she does, the enormity and the terror of it all will swallow her. Yet after the past few weeks – after the sky tore open and the convict became the Herald – she feels that faith is needed more than ever. It may just keep her sane in times like these.

The Chantry’s doors are always open, even now, when it is empty. It is, frankly, something of a security risk, but something that has always been insisted upon by mothers and chanters alike, and she is rarely one to disrespect tradition. The silence echoes off the stone, filling the room.

And then she hears the low murmur, half-whispered and barely audible, coming from a dark corner. Transfigurations, if she recalls correctly, and she usually does. She catches pieces of it but not the entirety.

“ _O Creator, see me kneel...”_

From anyone else, it would be rote, soulless. She has worked long enough for the Chantry to hear the recitation countless times. And yet in his throat it is a plea, something rawer, quieter and altogether sadder.

It takes a moment for her to recognize the voice, but when she does, she pauses. She is ready to leave him to his prayers as quietly as possible, to pretend that this never happened, but his voice has stopped. She’s been noticed.

Whatever Leliana and Josephine may think, subtlety is not completely alien to her. She could easily leave, give him at least some semblance of privacy. But she knows Cullen, and she knows that he will wonder until the end of his days whether some recruit walked into the Chantry and found the leader of their armies in desperate prayer, his voice rough with suffering, and whether that recruit told others...

She clears her throat, hoping that will be enough.

She hears his intake of breath. “Cassandra.” A scrape of armour, probably the sound of him standing, and then he’s walking into the better-lit part of the room.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she says.

“You didn’t. I was just about to leave.” He stands tall, assuming a stance she finds familiar from years of supervising templars, but there is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and his hands are behind his back, probably to hide the tremors. His eyes are slightly unfocused.

Lyrium. The oldest shame of the Chantry. She understands the necessity of it in many ways, but she will never like it. It seems unfair that men and women should devote their lives to the Chantry only to receive this as their reward. (But this is a world where the Divine is dead, where the Breach was allowed to happen. It is hardly _fair._ )

It seems unwise to leave him alone in this state.

“I was here for a similar reason,” she admits. It’s an attempt to keep him here, and he will surely see through it, but she tries anyway. “There has been little time for prayer recently, and I... wondered if I should.”

He nods curtly, and then his eyes meet hers, and something in them is pleading. “When we spoke about my position – we had an agreement.”

She knows what he’s about to say, and she doesn’t want to hear it. She refuses to. “Don’t ask this of me. Not yet.”

He sets his jaw, looking less like he’s about to fall over from some combination of pain and exhaustion. “I wasn’t going to. I just needed to know if it still stands.”

“Of course it does.”

He nods once more, and she thinks she hears an exhale of relief. “Good,” he says. He bows his head, slumping slightly.

Cassandra sometimes wonders what Cullen sees when he looks in the mirror. He’s younger than he seems to realize. He holds himself differently, speaks differently, from many men of his own age. She recognizes that all too well. Battle makes you old, in ways that aren’t always reflected on the outside. Enough of it for the wrong reasons wears your soul away. It’s a different kind of fatigue, one deeper and worse than the kind that comes upon you after a few too many days’ travel. It’s far more gradual, and by the time you realize it has set in, it may already be too late. He has changed in many ways during the short time she has known him, but his eyes are still too old for the rest of him, and they still remind her of the weary Knight-Captain whose back was breaking under the weight of Kirkwall.  

She wonders, too, if he would allow anyone else to see him like this. Sometimes he plays the part of invincibility so well that she wonders if he even manages to convince himself.

He raises his head. “Do you really believe that she’s the Herald?” he asks, after the silence grows too heavy.

“I...” She doesn’t know how to answer that. The question is too much. Who is she to guess at the Maker’s motives? “I don’t know. I believe we needed her, and the Maker sent her.”

“I see.” His reply is quiet, doubtful.

“I have to,” she admits. It is the only anchor she has, the only thing that tells her who she is in a world such as this one.

“Though I must confess, I do find her rather odd.” When she looks at him, she sees that the steel is back in his spine, and he’s crossed his arms, a ponderous frown on his face.

“If she has done something – “

“No, no. I never said that was a bad thing.” He glances at the ceiling and raises his eyebrows, evidently rethinking his words. “Well, when we were discussing the war, she did make an incredibly inappropriate joke about staves.”

“I – “ Cassandra raises a hand to her face, embarrassment making her curl in upon herself. “Yes. That sounds like her.”

However, when she glances upwards, she finds that he’s smiling – if not _smirking._ It isn’t entirely unexpected. Despite what many say, he is far from humourless. As is she.

“I’ve spent much of my life in Circles and around templars,” he tells her. “Off-colour jokes aren’t exactly new to me. She seems a good woman.”

“She does. Though you are right about the, the _strangeness._ ” She sighs. The silence falls between them again, growing thicker by the second. She is beginning to feel weariness creeping into her bones, and he must be exhausted. She is still worried by what she has seen, and thinks it may be inadvisable to leave him alone with his thoughts, but he is glassy-eyed with fatigue. It will be worse in the morning if he doesn’t get some rest, and the recruits cannot see him like this. She knows what it is to try and prolong the inevitable so that the nightmares don’t come as soon, but he _must_ rest. “Have you slept?”

She sees his eyes flicker to the left wall of the Chantry, the floor, anywhere but her. An obvious tell. He’s debating with himself whether to lie. “I haven’t,” he says at last. It’s resigned and half a sigh.

“Go,” she tells him, more gently than necessary, hoping that it will sink in. He has been with the Chantry long enough to grow good at following orders. “Your troops will need you alert.”

His shoulders tense. He is obviously about to argue with her, but then he nods. “You’re probably right.” He rubs a hand against his forehead, wincing, and then walks out of the Chantry. “Goodnight,” he says as he passes.

“Goodnight.” It is softer than she meant it to be.                                                                                                              

She waits until his footsteps fade, then walks to the altar. Though her hands are shaking, the movements are familiar enough to her by now that she could perform them blindfolded. She lights two candles – Regalyan, Anthony – and then she begins to pray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interlude, because these are two of my favourite ridiculously attractive, emotionally constipated Chantry knights and I think their friendship is wonderful.


	4. Reasonable

Yvaine’s beginning to think that Cullen might not be such a templar after all. So of course, that’s when they get back from recruiting the rebel mages and everything goes to the Void.

“You cannot think this is a good idea! Letting magic run unchecked while the Veil is torn open?” His voice is growing higher in volume with his upset, and the more agitated he becomes, the more Fereldan he sounds. It would be amusing if this weren’t such an utter mess.

Leliana, Cassandra and Josephine are watching them, and while half of her wants someone to step in, the rest of her wants this, needs to speak her piece. They’ve had disagreements in the war room before – all of them have, part of the _point_ of having advisers is that sometimes their advice conflicts  and needs to stand up to debate – but this is different, rawer round the edges. More dangerous.                                                                               

She glares at him, only half-aware of the fact that she’s planting her feet firmly on the ground, standing steady as if she’s preparing herself for a fight. “Your templar is showing. Kindly tuck it back in, if you will.”

“This isn’t about my history with the Order.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Of course it isn’t.”                                          

“The pull of the Fade is stronger now, and we don’t have templars to watch over the mages. Not all of them will be able to resist temptation, you know that...”

“So what, you think we should have conscripted them? They’d be running for the gates!” It’s the first time she’s raised her voice to anyone since she was pulled into the Inquisiton, and she sees his surprise. Leliana or Josephine would hide it, try and smooth things over, but Cullen’s made of different stuff. He wants a fight, and for once, she’s happy to oblige. His reaction is making her wonder what he sees when he looks at her, and she wonders if his eyes fall too often to the staff at her back. “Without a show of trust, they’d be little better than prisoners, and believe me, they’d know.”

“Perhaps limiting freedoms is a price we have to pay if it means – “

“What do you think happens when you give a group of mages new power and combine it with oppressive conditions? They run, or they fight, and then you get things like the White Spire, or the Fereldan Circle!”

He flinches. Blink and you’d miss it – she nearly does – but something crosses his face. She remembers him telling her he was stationed at the Circle during the Blight, and wonders again what happened. Then it’s gone. He’s crossing his arms, raising his chin, and saying, “So you admit that there’s a potential danger, then?” The fact he seems to have calmed considerably should warn her. He has the look of a man who thinks he’s found a way to win. He’s not fighting anymore – he’s scheming.

Fade take it. “No! I mean – Maker.” She slaps a palm to her face. “People are people. If you treated the men like criminals, they would rebel. They’d do so with swords rather than staves, but the point stands. We need to show the mages they’re trusted.” She sighs. “Look, do we have a problem?”

He stares at her, wrongfooted. “You mean personally?”

With a sharp nod, she says, “Personally. After all, I’m a mage, and since you obviously aren’t too fond of having those running round your camp...”

“No, not at all." He looks as if he's bothered by her assuming that. "It’s just that not all mages are like you. And I say this as much for the safety of the mages as anyone else. They must be protected, even if from themselves.”

"I..." She sighs. "I don't disagree. We need safeguards, it's just - the templars, as they are now? They're not the answer. You said so yourself."

He considers that. "I did. I still maintain that we can’t have _nothing_ in place." He looks to Cassandra. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

Cassandra crosses her arms, raises her chin. “I may not _agree_ with the Herald’s decision, but I respect it. And I will stand by it.”

“Thank you,” Yvaine says, through teeth gritted so hard it’s a wonder people can’t hear them grinding together. She has never understood the expression _hackles rising,_ but she thinks she does now. She leans over the war table to look Cullen in the eye. “But I am not a _dog_ on a _leash._ I will not be reined in. You” – and she looks at them all, then, for they’re all accountable in some small way – “put me in this position. Don’t condemn me for making the decisions _you_ wouldn’t!”

Josephine, as always, is forgiving. “You did the best you could, but perhaps...”

And then Dorian interrupts them all, and she was glad of the mage in the terrifying future they were dragged to, but here, she could kiss him. Her mood has turned abruptly from wanting a fight to knowing the damage it will cause if she pursues it. She looks at the other three women, acutely aware she’s made a fool of herself in front of them.

They file out of the war room. Dorian strikes up a conversation with her, and she doesn’t protest, glad of the distraction – or, she admits, glad of the excuse not to look at Cullen. She’s in the sort of mood where idiots get their eyebrows singed off. “So,” he says cheerfully, “I take it what happened in Redcliffe hasn’t made you too popular.”

She gives him a lopsided half-grin. “Well, Maferath might have had a few more friends than I do right now.”

It’s forced and terrible, but he obliges her with a laugh, and she likes him for it. Well, likes him even more than she already did; when they first met, the grandstanding made her a little wary, but there seemed to be nothing cruel about it, and she has to admit that he’s funny. She likes funny – she took quite well to Varric too, upon their first meeting. “A few? More like a legion.”

“You weren’t supposed to agree with me.”

“Oh dear,” he says, not looking remorseful at all. “Allow me to make amends. You are, of course, the darling of the Inquisition and Thedas in general. They find your leniency with the rebel mages utterly charming.”

“If you tone down the sarcasm a little and substitute ‘inspiring’ for ‘charming,’ we may have a winner.” She sighs. “I really am glad to have you join the Inquisition. You were a great help in Redcliffe.”

With a swift half-bow, he says, “Glad to be of service, my lady.”

She grimaces. “Any more titles and I may well fry something.”

He grins at her, his teeth white beneath his ridiculous moustache. It actually suits him, she decides after a moment – a moustache like that should never suit _anyone,_ and yet somehow, he wears it well. Maybe magical aid is involved somewhere. “Would the Herald of Andraste like some company for her brooding?”

She doesn’t fry him, though he’s skirting perilously close to the edge of his doom. His offer is sincere, however, and kind, and that’s probably what saves him. She gives him a small smile. “Thank you, but I doubt I’d be much company at the moment, and you’ll want to get acquainted with what Haven has to offer.”

“I’m sure _that_ ’ll be exciting,” he says flatly.

“More than you might think. We have an alchemist, and er...” She trails off. “...angry templars, as you’ve seen. It’s all terribly thrilling.”

His smirk settles into something a little more genuine. “I’m sure.” He leans in, his voice turning conspiratorial. “I’m interested to know - where can one find a good library in this place?”

Her mood lifts a little. Ah, a man after her own heart. “Well, we don’t have a library as such...” At his slightly horrified look, she snorts and says, “Yes, we’re a southern backwater full of illiterates, I can see you thinking it.”

“I was thinking nothing of the sort,” he protests. He cocks his head, looks to the sky. “Well, maybe a little.”

“Josephine has an excellent reference selection. If you ask her, I’m sure she’d be happy to let you take a look. If it’s fiction you want, she’s also keeping an eye on my stash.” The myth compilations and some of Varric’s works. Her old, well-read copy of _The Rose of Orlais_ is buried at the bottom of a chest in her bedroom,as well as a newer volume of _Swords & Shields_ and she will never admit that they’re hers.                

“Thank you. I shall try not to intrude too much on your hospitality.”

“I wouldn’t worry. We always have a few books lying around no-one needs.”

He saunters off with a cheery wave, presumably to have a look around Haven and find Josephine. She takes the path to the Singing Maiden, her temporary good mood dissipating in his absence.

She’s frowning at the ground as she walks. Her hands have clenched into tight fists, and they’re shaking slightly. She’s glad she’s wearing gloves, or her fingernails would be digging painfully into her palms.

She doesn’t know why this bothers her so. She’d have expected no less of a templar. But the rest of them...

_Why didn’t you stop her?_

As if Cassandra – responsible, the _real_ leader – should have stepped in. She’s known it the entire time, but that doesn’t make the confirmation any less painful. She’s unsure why they even bother pretending that she’s welcome in the war room, that her input _matters._ She seals rifts – that’s all she’s good for. Standing next to an experienced diplomat, a Seeker, the Divine’s spymaster and a seasoned commander, what is she, exactly? An emotionally stunted Circle mage? What good is that to them?

She arrives at the tavern and orders a drink. She smiles at Flissa, even if it comes out a little strained; the woman doesn’t deserve the brunt of her anger. Then she takes what she’s rapidly beginning to think of as her corner, sitting and watching the rest of the tavern. Her grip on the handle of her tankard is tighter than she realizes; when she looks down, she sees that she’s white-knuckled. She takes a swig. For once, she’d like to get good and properly _drunk,_ but it wouldn’t do for the Herald of Andraste to be seen staggering out of the tavern, would it?

Fuck.

The problem is that she came perilously close to taking him at his word. All that guff about wanting peace between templars and mages, about the templars having failed mages, and she swallowed it. When he said _former templar,_ she nearly believed him. Foolish of her. She shakes her head minutely, takes another swig, and resumes glaring down at the wood of the table.

Heavy, measured footsteps, ones that are definitely heading in her direction. The clank of armour. She wants very much to believe it’s just some star-struck recruit – she’s had to field a few of those already, and it never gets any easier – but she knows perfectly well who it is.

“I thought I might find you here,” Cullen says.                                                                    

She looks up, tempted to snap something about not being able to get even a moment’s peace, but instead gives him a sardonic smile. If anything, it seems to get his back up even more than aggression would have, and she allows herself a moment of petty satisfaction. “Wow,” she says. “You really are good at hunting down apostates.”

“You’re not – “ He sighs, running a hand over his forehead, then without any prompting, takes the other chair. The flimsy wood creaks under his weight. “ _Do_ we have a problem?”

She crosses her arms, regards him warily. “I don’t know,” she says. “That may depend on you.”

He glances down at the table, then looks at her. His eyes are dark in the low light of the tavern, and he’s giving her that painfully earnest face he’s so adept at. “I came here to apologize. My conduct in the war room was unworthy of me.”

“It was.” She shifts her gaze to address her ale. “Though truthfully, mine wasn’t much better.” When he raises his eyebrows, evidently surprised by that, she continues, “I shouldn’t have made things personal. I just... You seemed a reasonable man.”

“So I’m not reasonable now?” She detects no anger in his tone, just confusion and not inconsiderable hurt.

She gestures carelessly to him. “You had some valid points.” She realizes as she says it that it’s true. “But that... that outburst was unexpected.”

With the hint of a sigh, he says, “Surely you must know that this much power, allowed free rein – it will draw demons like moths to a flame.” He places his hands on the table, his palms flat against the wood. It feels like a resignation, or a surrender. 

“It will,” she admits, with the slightest nod. “But that doesn’t mean that mages will bow to them, and leashing mages is _not_ the answer. They’ve had plenty of opportunities to turn to blood magic and demons during this war, and they haven’t, even through the worst of it. Don’t you think that says something about them?”

“They were perfectly happy to turn to Tevinter magisters, however,” he retorts. He leans an elbow on the table, resting his face in his palm. “I’m sorry. That was...”

“A valid point.”

He raises his head, frowning at her.

“You have to think of all the possibilities, don’t you? You’re a strategist. You can’t trust anyone too much, or you’d be no good at your job. Even so” – she took another mouthful of ale – “that was an action born of desperation. We’ve given them a better option, so now they’ll turn to the Inquisition. For a lot of them, their loyalty is almost guaranteed, because we’re treating them like human beings. It’s not as if they have anyone else who’ll do that, with things as they are now.”

“A valid point,” he echoes. His lips are drawn tight as he concedes, and that draws her attention to his scar. It looks like it was probably quite the painful wound when he got it, and she wonders what could have caused it. She is aware after a couple of seconds that she’s been staring at his mouth, and she returns her eyes to her tankard, embarrassment hot in her chest and her cheeks. “But I was aiming to _apologize,_ not to berate you.” He shuts his eyes, brows drawn together in apparent frustration. Re-opens them to watch her levelly. “What I said to Cassandra was unfair.”

Huffing a sardonic laugh, she says, “I’m certainly not denying that.”                                

“You were right. We put you in this position, and you did the best you could with what you had. I may not necessarily agree with you, but I will gladly fight alongside the mages if it’s in the best interests of the Inquisition.”

She nods, exhaling a breath. “Thank you.” After taking another sip of her tankard, she asks, “You were a knight captain, weren’t you? Don’t you think that might have made you biased?”

It’s his turn to scoff. “What, and your background hasn’t?”

She inclines her head. “True enough. My behaviour wasn’t befitting of an Inquisition agent. Or” – she puts on a deep, false-grave voice – “’ _the Herald of Andraste!_ ’”

“You really don’t like the title, do you?” He seems amused by that, though it’s understated – more in his eyes that anywhere else, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

“I’m not overly fond of it, no.” She gives him a wan smile. “I’m sorry for the way I acted.”

He nods. “As am I.”

“Good.”

He’s listened to her, at least, admitted she may be right on a few things. That’s more than she’s seen most templars do. She can feel her anger sinking, and she knows she won’t be able to maintain it for much longer. Not unless he does something to provoke her.

“Look,” she says after a moment, “I respect your decisions, commander. Can you at least pretend to respect mine?”

 “I do,” he protests.

She raises an eyebrow and says, “Evidently.”

“I _do_. The work you’ve done for the Inquisition is remarkable, considering you didn’t even volunteer for this role. You’re valuable to us, and I’m happy to advise you. As I said, that doesn’t mean I have to agree with you.” He gives her a crooked half-smile. “And you do know you can call me Cullen?”

“Maybe when I get an ‘Yvaine’ out of you.”

He nods and replies, completely straight-faced, “I see, Herald.”

Surely he can’t have that much of a stick up his rear. No – he’s pulling her leg. She glares at him, increasing its vitriol when his lips twitch. Then she says, “Would you like a drink?”

His eyes dart away from her, and he almost looks... sheepish. “I’d best not,” he says. “I was supposed to be overseeing the recruits. I've left Rylen in my place.”

“You skipped your work to see me? I’m touched.”              

“I felt I owed you an apology. I couldn’t leave things as they were.”

“Well, that debt’s paid. I’ll see you, Cullen? Perhaps I can buy you that drink sometime.”

“I’ll see you,” he confirms, giving her a nod and the slightest of smiles before he stands. He carefully replaces the chair under the table, somehow managing not to make it scrape across the floor – of _course_ he does – then he’s walking through the tavern and out of the door. He moves surprisingly quickly for a man who wears so much armour.

She drains the last of her ale and then stands, rolling her shoulders. She has work to do – the Herald of Andraste can’t be seen resting on her laurels, after all.


	5. Endings

The walls of the Chantry shake. Outside, Haven is burning, and inside, Roderick is dying. She’s struggling to think, to breathe - but beside her, Cullen’s already forming a plan to evacuate Haven, and damn him, it’s a good one. His usually are.

She knows how this ends. She’s had half a suspicion since she climbed out of that Makerforsaken Breach, because people don’t just survive things like that, not unless they’re part of some bloody epic. And stories like those always end tragically, as Varric would just love to remind her.

“And what of your escape?” he asks.

She opens her mouth to say it. Shuts it again, just looks at him. The silence can speak for her.

His face falls, and look at that, there’s genuine sadness in his eyes. It seems to take both of them aback. “Maybe you’ll surprise it,” he tries.

As he falters over false reassurances, she looks at him and realizes she’s made a mistake. She should have tried harder. She should have worked out the right things to say. That’s her terrible epiphany: she likes him, and she has a suspicion that it’s mutual. There’s an interesting man under all that armour, one who might have made a good friend. And now it’s too late to try.

She shakes her head, smiles at him. “It’s been an honour, Cullen.”

In the moments in between – before he replaces the mantle of commander, his eyes heavy with something like guilt and his voice quieter – she thinks she hears him say something, but she’s already turning, wanting to get it over with.

“Let that thing hear you!” he orders.

She’ll make sure to. She won’t go down easily. She wasn’t made for it. Though the Circle – and even she herself, once – might’ve disagreed, she’s still a Trevelyan, all tooth and claw and hard bone. They die fighting; it’s the way of things. There are worse ways to go.

She already knows the ending of her story. Now to go and meet it.

She allows herself a moment – closes her eyes, inhales, curses the letter to Emmeline still lying unsent in her pocket – and then she runs.


	6. Snow

It stretches before him for miles upon miles, a desert of white. It’s easy to lose your way here, or worse, lose yourself. The combination of tedium and despair is beginning to wear upon him, but he keeps the march.

Forward progress. It was one of the first things he was taught in Chantry training. Hunting apostates is neither as dramatic nor as heroic as it sounds – a surprising amount of it is spent on interminable treks through swamps and inclement conditions. One of the biggest killers is in fact boredom. It makes you lazy – you tire more easily, you make foolish mistakes and you let your guard down, often just in time for a rogue spell or an ambush to catch you. You use the smallest things (a gnarled log, an overturned tree by a crumbling wall) as landmarks, and you make sure that you aren’t walking in circles. You remind yourself that, slow as it may seem, you  _are_ making progress.

They walk, and they walk. The survivors trudge behind them, shivering and miserable. But there  _are_  survivors. That’s more than he could have hoped for.

He always thought he knew his nightmares well – there was very little they could do to surprise him anymore. Now he knows differently. He knows that when he closes his eyes, he will see himself ready to condemn an entire town to be buried, and the Herald smiling at him, walking straight-backed and proud to her death.

No. Not the Herald. She hates –  _hated_ that name.

 He closes his eyes, inhaling a breath, and then opens them again. He can’t stumble and he can’t falter, not with all that remains of Haven at his back. They’re looking to him now that their figurehead is under feet of snow. They will look for someone else to idolize and follow blindly. Maybe Cassandra could fill that role, reluctant as she seems to place herself as leader of the Inquisition.

Besides, who is he mourning? Trevelyan wasn’t quite a friend. Or perhaps she was. He doesn’t know, and now he never will. Whatever she was to him, he mourns the death of a strong woman, and a brave one; a woman who went to her death with a smile, and did it to save many.

The problem was, there was never quite enough time. They always meant to set aside a moment to talk, and something else always demanded their attention. (What he means, of course, is his attention. He so rarely made time for anyone, never mind possibly the busiest woman in the Inquisition.) Though there were some things they could never agree on, such as the problem of the rebel mages, she was a good woman. He will miss her, or what little he knew of her, and he wishes that she didn’t have to be added to the ever-growing list of good people he’s leaving dead behind him.

He finds himself half-expecting sudden footsteps beside him, a jibe about whether he’s becoming tired with all this relentless trudging. It won’t come. That doesn’t stop faint, vain hope from making its home inside his chest.

“She may still live,” Cassandra says. She has been silent beside him so far except for helping him to order and organize their people. Her voice is flat and barely hopeful.

He sighs. “How many could survive  _that?_ ” He jerks his head to the landscape behind him. Some distance away, now out of their sight, are the ruins of Haven.

“She survived the rift,” Cassandra points out.

“That was different. The Mark won’t save her from an avalanche.”

“It could.” Cassandra shrugs. “We don’t truly know what it can do yet. We don’t know what  _she_ can do. The Maker may reward our faith.”

“I wish I could be so certain.” He keeps his eyes on the horizon and keeps his feet moving forwards. Maybe he should offer more and try to continue the conversation, but pleasantries and platitudes help no-one.

He wonders what will become of the Inquisition now. Perhaps they will find another way to close the Breach, but it seems unlikely. What then? Will it keep spreading until it swallows the rest of Thedas? What can they do now but stand useless, desperately grasping for ideas that won’t bear fruit? He thought he found purpose by coming here, but now he’s uncertain. What good is he, if he let the Inquisition’s best asset, the woman who had the potential to end all this, die? He was supposed to find a way. He let Meredith’s tyranny bring Kirkwall to breaking point and did nothing, he has allowed the Inquisition to die in its infancy and done nothing, he –

No. He doesn’t have the luxury of self-pity. Not now. There is too much depending on him, and he refuses to bow to self indulgence. He finds that he’s frowning at nothing again, and he raises a hand to try and smooth his brow. His head is beginning to ache.

“Cullen.” He jumps at the hand on his shoulder. He discovers that it’s Cassandra’s, and when he looks at her questioningly, she says, “There was nothing you could have done. You have that look – you’re blaming yourself. You shouldn’t.”

“We lost too many. We may still lose more if we don’t keep moving.” He looks over his shoulder. Behind them, the villagers trail, their feet sluggish. They haven’t been told why the Herald isn’t with them yet; the blow to morale will be painful. They should be told, he knows, but the need to keep them on their feet is too great. (And reluctant as he is to admit it, perhaps some of the Inquisition are still hoping the Herald will return.) When they make camp, he will spread word of Trevelyan’s demise. For now, they walk.

“But we haven’t lost many,” she insists. “And most of that is down to you.”

He’s never been good at taking compliments. He fidgets under the weight of her gaze, struggling not to appear ungrateful. He settles for, “Thank you,” acknowledging her words with a short nod. He’s unsure what else to say, so he settles for nothing rather than empty words. The silence presses in upon them, echoing around the valley. Any unsaid words are absorbed by the snow.

* * *

She walks, and she walks.                                                                         

Snow. There’s so much  _snow._ She feels herself flagging, hope leaching out of her along with body heat. She’s half-beginning to wonder if this is all some kind of test – if she’s in the Fade after all, and some demon is tormenting her. A... Snow Demon. Yes. The stuff is so awful to her now that it deserves its own demon. Time seems irrelevant and impossible to hold onto here: minutes or hours could have passed, she isn’t sure. She’s not sure she wants to know – if she’s lost hours out here, any people are probably too far ahead for her to reach before... Well.

She’s shocked she’s alive, and she can’t help but wonder how long it will last. Surely her luck – good or bad, she doesn’t know – has to run out soon.

They’ll all be so disappointed. Their great, noble Herald of Andraste felled not by the terrible Elder One, but by the cold and the weather.

Even with her gloves, her hands feel like blocks of ice. Her fingers are growing numb.

Step. Step. One foot after the other. She falls into an odd kind of rhythm, the  _crunch_ of the snow beneath her feet keeping time.

 _Crunch._ What will Emmeline think? How will she react when the news reaches her? Hopefully it will take a few weeks – a few weeks where she can still assume her sister is alive, working on another letter and thinking of her. She wonders what her parents will think. They’ll  _care_ – of course they will – but they won’t know who to mourn. The woman limping away from the wreckage is not the frightened young girl they left in the Circle: the last time they saw her, she was fourteen.

 _Crunch._ There are enough mages dead in this valley. They probably don’t need another to join them, but it makes a strange sort of sense. The narrative demands it, something like that. It sounds like the kind of thing Dorian would say – or Varric, with fewer fancy words. The Herald of Andraste, the last victim of the mess at the Conclave.

 _Crunch._ Her teeth are chattering. She’s used to the comparative warmth of the Free Marches – the cold in this place isn’t so bad when she can escape from it, but she’s trapped in it now, and she was relatively unprepared. She isn’t wearing enough layers for this, she realizes. She tries to summon a fireball,  _something,_ but her mana is dangerously low, the Veil too thick to pull magic through. She curses under her breath, even with no-one to hear it. It makes her feel ever so slightly better.

Something catches her eye, and she slowly makes her way towards it. A campfire, or the remains of one. She touches a shaking hand to it. Cold, like her. She laughs, but it comes out as more of a sob. What she wouldn’t give for furs, or a heavy cloak, or... She thinks of that ridiculous thing the commander seems to carry round on his back. She wouldn’t mind stealing it right now, pauldrons and all, but he probably has for more need of it than she does. He’ll have an army to lead and survivors to rally. She keeps her eyes on the ashes of the fire. A camp? Has what’s left of the Inquisition passed this way? She can hope.

Cullen. He’d be ordering her on, shoving her forwards if necessary. Fereldans seem so much better able to deal with this hideous weather. Cassandra would in all probability be the same, perhaps offering her a shoulder to lean on. Josephine would probably be even worse off than her, but she’d be making promises, talking about a warm fire and food if they keep going. Leliana would likely do small things to keep them moving, would remind them how much is depending on them. The others? Varric would tell stories, of course. Dorian would make quips until his teeth were chattering too much. Sera and Bull would tease each other and everyone else, provoke people into being practical. Solas would focus on magical protection from the elements...

She sighs. She hopes they won’t be too angry with her. She just wants to  _rest_. She feels as if she hasn’t truly slept since she stepped out of the rift.

 _No._ She’s heard of these symptoms. She remembers Rylen drilling the men on them, telling them what to watch out for. It means the cold is beginning to set in. She can’t afford to let it. She can’t afford to stop, to catch her breath.

 _For the love of the Maker, Yvaine,_ walk.

She walks.

* * *

The camp is near silent. The news is out, and it has spread quickly through the ranks. The Herald of Andraste is missing, presumed dead. They all saw Haven crumble; simply  _missing_ seems unlikely in the extreme. He blinks, squinting against the snow that falls into his eyes, ducking his head and adjusting his cloak. Apparently he needs to speak to Leliana and Josephine, probably about organizing the camp and the estimated death toll.

He is far from the only one who seems morose. An air of hopelessness is hanging over their heads now. Few speak, and he occasionally hears muttered prayers.

When he does eventually find Leliana, she is poring frantically over maps. She has always looked younger than her age (in some ways, she barely seems to have changed from the woman he first saw in Kinloch Hold with Amell, and that is a memory he has no desire to linger upon), but now, frowning, her mouth drawn tight, she wears all her years on her face. It’s an odd sight.

“Cullen.” She hasn’t even looked up. He wonders if his stride gave him away. It might have been that she was warned, or that she spotted him long before he was aware of it. In all likelihood it’s the latter. He should probably be more surprised than he is by that. “You received my message?”

“Yes,” he replies. “You wanted me?”

On another day she might make some sort of sly comment about his choice of words, in an effort to see whether she truly could turn him puce with embarrassment, as she has threatened before. But the Herald is dead, and today is hardly a day for jokes. Instead she nods. “A scout was looking for any further signs of the rogue templars on our tail. She says she saw a green light out in the snow. It wasn’t too far from here.”

He doesn’t dare to hope. “A rift?” he offers.

Josephine glances up from her latest ledger, shaking her head. “Apparently it was too small to be a rift. And it appeared to be moving.”

Hope rises in him so fiercely and so suddenly that he feels light-headed. It makes his legs tense, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword. He has never been a man patient with inaction, and if she’s out there somewhere, dying in the snow... “Surely you’ve sent people to search?” It’s too curt, a demand rather than a question. He reins himself in. Impatience can’t get the better of him.

With a flap of canvas, Cassandra ducks into the tent. “Of course we have,” she replies, equally curtly. “But we thought it best to search ourselves, as well. It is...” She hesitates. He knew that Cassandra considered the woman a friend, and she has lost far too much already to the Breach. “It is the least she deserves.”

“We thought you would want to know,” Leliana finishes.

There is no anger in her face, but her level gaze makes him feel more guilt than he thought possible for his snappishness. He can’t meet her eye, so he makes a transparent pretence of adjusting his gauntlets. “Thank you. I would like to accompany you, if I may.”

“Of course,” Leliana says, her soft smile telling him he is forgiven. “We set out in five minutes.”

He thanks them once more, then goes to make preparations. It is indeed the least she deserves.

* * *

“That’s her!”

“Look!”

The voices mingle, confusing in their familiarity. There’s Leliana, and oh, is that Josephine, and...

An arm curls round her waist, steadying her, and she leans in relief against a shoulder. Tall, she thinks stupidly, but stooping. The metal is cold, she can feel it even through the leather of her gear, and she sighs in relief when she finds fur. It tickles at her nose. “ _You’re alive_ ,” he murmurs. It’s a startled, shaky exhale, barely there and then taken by the wind. She hears an argument break out, and then the rescuer she’s leaning against insists, “It’s fine, I’ve got her.” A clear order of _leave it_ is implied, and that almost makes her smile, because of course he’s ordering people around, but before she can pursue that thought any further, she’s lifted bodily into his arms.

In any other circumstances, she’d be offended at the presumption. As it is, she can’t feel her legs, and with a relieved sigh of, “Thank you,” she slips out of consciousness.


	7. Thaw

She wakes to an argument. She buries her head in the blankets again, not ready to listen to Mother and Father starting up with another fight.

( _We have to send her._

_But it could have been... it could have been an accident, couldn’t it?_

_Edith, you and I both know she froze that fountain. And she’s been having nightmares recently. There is no better explanation._

_She’s so young. Are they always so young?_

_My brother said that this is about the age it manifests. Many of the new apprentices are of her age. Some are younger. We had more years with her than some get._

_Did we do something? Is this...?_

_No, no. This isn’t a punishment._

_I... If she hurts us... And we were going to give her the title. If someone finds out a noble is – Magic is to serve man and never to rule over him._

_I know. I hadn’t considered – didn’t one of your brothers have magic? It must have... I’m sorry._

_You’re... Here. I have a – a handkerchief somewhere, I don’t know where it’s got to..._

_What she is, it isn’t her fault. But that won’t stop the demons._

_I had thought to see her wedding. I suppose we still have Emmeline, at least._

_And if she’s the same? Forgive me, I didn’t mean to... Someone will have to call for the templars._

_I’ll do it. You’re in no fit state.)_

“Small, sitting on the stairs so they won’t see. Sad, scared, _certain._ Sent away.”

She knows that voice, she thinks – the boy in Redcliffe, and she can’t quite put her finger on his name... It’s close by. He must be sitting next to her. She frowns, debating with herself whether to open her eyes and ask whether he’s talking about her. His words seem too much of a coincidence.

“She is awake?” Mother Giselle asks.

“Nearly.” The voice of the – _Cole,_ now she remembers. There is the smallest sound, a sudden silence next to her. She knows instinctively that he’s gone.

Then she recognises the _other_ voices, the ones that have become loud enough to awaken her. She opens her eyes, grimacing. They feel gritty from sleep, and the light hurts. Then she sits up, slowly, painfully, and looks.

Josephine, Leliana, and – oh. She remembers careful hands, someone carrying her from the storm. Distinctive armour. They’d been looking for her, and he brought her back here. She’ll have to thank him, thank them all for finding her.

That said, there’s a lot she hasn’t thanked him for. He’s been here for months, quietly brilliant, one of the most valuable assets the Inquisition has. She only has to ask and he’s there: solid, reliable, the sword she reaches for with utter confidence. And she barely noticed. In some ways, he’s been almost another piece of furniture, like the war table.

And now he’s helped save her life. She has no idea how she’s supposed to deal with that.

She remembers her thoughts in Haven’s Chantry. A friend, perhaps. That would be nice.

The thought warms her, until she’s crushed by remembering what brought her here. Haven gone. There probably isn’t even an Inquisition now. Where can they go? What can they do? Sit in the snow and make fruitless plans?

And then Mother Giselle is singing softly, and everything changes.

* * *

“Commander.”

He looks up from where he has, truthfully, been contemplating his navel. She hasn’t startled him; very few people manage to sneak up on him, and her boots crunch heavily in the snow as she makes her way to him.

He greets her with, “Herald.” At the name, her left eye twitches the smallest amount; he never thought he’d have cause to say it, but he’s glad to see that again. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

“I’ve spent enough time horizontal recently.”

He coughs into his hand, but through some effort of will keeps a straight face, looking away from her and insisting to himself that only the cold is making him flush.

She grimaces. “I didn’t mean – Pretend I didn’t say that.”

He nods, offering her a smile. “Done.”

“Thank you. Of course, what the great Herald of Andraste _meant_ to say is this: I’ll be fine. I can sleep when I’m dead.”

He feels his face fall as he fails to entirely cover his reaction to that thought; it... is not a pleasant one. She has come far too close recently.

Another grimace. “Ah. I see that wasn’t a much better choice.”             

He tries to explain, rather than let their silent awkwardness stretch. “Forgive me. It’s...” He remembers how terrifyingly cold her skin was, and the fact that her lips were blue. The words won’t come easily to his tongue, content instead to dance away and elude him. It rarely happens for long these days, but it is one more echo of his younger self that sometimes haunts him. “It’s still a little fresh.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve just always thought, well, if you can’t joke about your own death, whose _can_ you joke about?”

He concedes the point with a nod. “Fair enough, I suppose. I’ve hardly been innocent of it myself.”               

“You and Cassandra were leading the survivors from Haven, weren’t you?”

“We were. Why do you ask?”

“This place Solas spoke of – Skyhold. We’ll have a trek ahead of us. I thought you’d know the most about moving this many people, so I was hoping you’d help me draw up some plans for our journey.”

“Of course. Is there anything else you need me for?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” Silence falls for a few moments until she says, “Though I admit, I was rather surprised by...” Seemingly uncertain how to continue, she takes a moment before she says, “Well, the Chantry sisters must have queued to hear you in hymn services.”

It takes him a second or two to understand. When he does, he glances at her in surprise. “Oh.” A flush is beginning to crawl up the back of his neck, and he looks to the mountains in the distance rather than her. He’s unsure whether or not she’s mocking him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have allowed himself to... But the troops needed morale; the entire Inquisition did. Besides, part of him needed to believe those words; to believe that there was still hope. “You heard...? I, er, thank you.”

She smiles at him, and it’s softer than the wry twist of her lips she directs at him so often. Truer. It changes her face, smoothing out the hard angles and the shadows, and it suits her. “Sorry, I should have made myself clearer. You look like you’re waiting for the catch. That was a genuine compliment. You...” She glances down at the snow, shuffling a foot and stirring the white powder. “You have a good voice. It’s probably all that bellowing at the recruits. It keeps the lungs strong.”

He humours her. “Perhaps if some of them actually knew how to use a shield...” He sighs. “They do have to hear me across a battlefield, after all. I try to keep in practice.” He brings a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Though... it has been a long time since I’ve done anything other than shout.” The admission slips out before he thinks, and its honesty surprises him. “I haven’t exactly had much time to attend services.”

“The Inquisition waits for no man,” she says, a touch of humour in her tone. “Honestly, I’m just jealous. I’m told I sing like a rusty cat.”

He raises an eyebrow and echoes, “A rusty... cat?”

“Now I think about it, it may have been a rusty hinge and a strangled cat. I forget.”

He watches her, bemused. He’s tempted to ask if she’s always like this, but he has a number of suspicions. He thinks she does this to deflect, to lighten the mood and distract from her point. He’s seen her thin, sharp-cheeked and serious as the grave, and he knows that woman is just as real as the one who makes awkward quips and seems to enjoy watching him squirm. They stand there, watching the camp. In the silence, he listens to the wind blowing around the mountains, the bustle and hum of the people around them. He hears another sound beside him, one that’s low and regular, and he realizes then that he’s listening to her breathe. It lulls him into a kind of security: it lets him allow the silence to stretch. He exhales, sagging slightly and discovering how very tired he is. It’s deep in his bones. The nightmares may well greet him tonight, but he’s not sure he can bring himself to care – the sooner he can rest, the better.

“Speaking of forgetting things...”

At hearing her words, he turns back to her, waiting.

“I seem to recall you bringing me here. After - after what happened in Haven. Or am I wrong?”

He observes her warily, wondering whether she’s displeased at that thought. “You were unconscious and you’d collapsed.” It sounds too defensive coming from his mouth.

“Oh, I know. I just wanted to thank you. It can’t have been easy.”

“I’ve had to drag six foot knight-lieutenants off the field. Believe me, you were practically enjoyable by comparison.”

“It’s nice to know I’m not a six foot knight-lieutenant,” she says, with a short huff of laughter. Her smile still hasn’t fallen, and he slowly becomes aware that he’s returning it. His cheeks ache in the cold.

“I’m...” He tries to find words that won’t sound trite or overly sentimental. It isn’t even as if he knows her particularly well. “I’m glad you’re still with us, Herald,” he manages, “or the Inquisition might have lost its finest source of staff-based humour.”

A wide grin blossoms across her face. “Oh, I _knew_ it. I knew you were sarcastic under all that.”

“I’m afraid you must be mistaken.” He keeps his eyes on the camp, lest he lose the composure she so seems to admire.

“Completely straight-faced,” she remarks. “Is it the templar training that lets you do that?” When he doesn’t dignify that with an answer, she adds, “Though I don’t know why I’m surprised, remembering the way you talked about Kirkwall. What was it? ‘Apostate blew up the Chantry, knight commander went mad, but other than that it was fine’?”

He admits, he’s taken aback. “You remember that?”

She stares at him as though he’s monumentally stupid. “Of course I do. I thought it was rather good, actually.”

“I’m glad to know I have the Herald of Andraste’s approval,” he mutters.

“You do now,” she tells him, and then she says with a frightening sort of sincerity, “Thank you, Cullen.”

She leaves him standing like a fool, wondering how to reply.                                                          

* * *

She walks to her tent, resisting the urge to shake her head. _It’s nice to know I’m not a six foot knight lieutenant?_ That was awful, even for her.

She remembers the letter that was in her coat pocket when she went to meet Corypheus. It will be soaked and beyond saving now, and it’s still piled up with her old clothes next to her makeshift bed. Even so, she’s memorised most of it. It will be a long time before she’s able to send it, but for now she begins a reply in her head.

 _Emmeline,_ she begins. _Still alive, no matter what you might have heard._

She only makes it halfway through the letter before she’s asleep, but no nightmares visit her, and she slips into the Fade with a smile on her face.

_Still alive._


	8. Chosen

Skyhold is even more than Solas promised, grand and standing tall against the mountainside. Just looking at it makes her want to cower a little. She hears several gasps amongst the townsfolk and the rest of the Inquisition behind her. Intimidating from the outside, but from the inside – _safety,_ perhaps. It seems nigh-impenetrable.

Even Cullen agrees. The two of them have barely had a chance to speak through the journey, but she hears the muffled _clanks_ of heavy armour and the careful, measured pace she’s come to know is his, and then he says beside her, “It’s quite defensible.” Despite how Fereldan he is, he actually sounds _impressed_.

She smiles at him. “Good morning to you too.”

He has the grace to look embarrassed. He gives a short nod, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. “Herald.” At her grimace, he tries, “Lady Trevelyan?”

Her grimace doesn’t fade. “No, it still doesn’t work. Lady Trevelyan is my mother.”

“Then what _should_ I call you?” he sighs.                                                  

With a shrug, she tells him, ”You could always try ‘Yvaine.’”

“Mm.” It’s more of a grunt than any sort of reply, and that makes her smile with quiet amusement. He notices. “What?” he asks.

She shakes her head, sighing and turning her face to the sky. She squints against the sun – it’s almost painfully bright, making the snow on the mountains seem to glow white. It’s quite beautiful, but many would call it bleak, including her. “Are you always so blunt, commander?”

She hears his minute intake of breath, his hesitation, and then he echoes, “Blunt?” He’s frowning at her, obviously trying to work out whether or not she’s insulting him.

“You don’t hesitate to make your displeasure known.” Seeing the way he curls into himself slightly, the way his mouth twists at that, she adds, “No, no, that’s good. You’re... well, you’re honest. It takes a lot to be that, in times like these. If I wanted pretty words, I’d ask Leliana or Josephine.”

He sighs. “I am your adviser. If anything, it is my duty to make my displeasure known.”

“Hm. Yes, well. It’s a good excuse to hide behind.”

She’s surprised when, rather than glaring at her or ignoring that, he smiles – it’s small, understated but most definitely there – and says, “It does serve me rather well.”

She returns his smile, and she realizes that they’re watching each other as they walk. His eyes are warm, kind, steady on hers, and she finds herself looking away, her cheeks heating. She’s just taking another look at the fortress. Yes. She wonders why that feels so much like an excuse. “How long until we’re there, do you think?”

He squints at Skyhold, evidently doing mental calculations. It cleaves a line into the space between his eyebrows, makes him look even more intense than he usually does. “Half an hour. Perhaps more.”

She nods at that. “Thank you.” She gestures to the people behind them. “Any problems?”

“No significant ones. Some of the children are tired, but today’s is the shortest stretch of walking they’ve had to do so far. They’ll make it the rest of the way. We have horses for the ill and the elderly. Determination will carry people a long way, Herald. As will morale.” He looks at her pointedly, and when she only frowns, says, “They believe in you. In some ways, that has done far more for our cause than trebuchets or swords.”

She can’t stop her panic showing on her face. Her heart is seizing in her chest at the burden of so many people depending on her, thinking she’s... _holy._ Making her into a fraud. “But I’m – Who do they think I am? All I can be is _me,_ Cullen.”

He’s giving her that _look_ : the one where he focuses his gaze on her, maybe raising an eyebrow while he’s at it, and gives her the unnerving feeling that he can see into her soul. She can see how he commands troops; she shrinks at the weight of it. Then he says, “And perhaps that’s enough. It certainly is for them.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he looks over his shoulders, says, “I should probably check our supplies,” and strides off, returning to the villagers.

She’s left glaring at his back. Bastard.

* * *

Trevelyan, the Inquisitor?

He hears Leliana raise the idea and has to admit, it makes sense. The woman has led them with resolve and a startling amount of humility. Speaking of that humility: he has an idea of how she’ll take this. It won’t be well.

“She is far better suited than she thinks she is,” Cassandra says.

“I have to agree.” The words fall out of his mouth with little input from his brain. Leliana raises an eyebrow, and he thinks he sees Josephine smile, but he ploughs on with, “We’ve been counting on her to make decisions from the start. I see no reason not to make it official.”

The other three murmur in approval, and the decision is made.

* * *

Later, after they have all been awed by the scale of Skyhold and the enormity of the task before them, Leliana, Cassandra and Josephine take her aside.

 Watching from below, he sees the moment that she realizes why she’s been called here, and he sees the pure fear that flits across her face.  He sees her words of protest, even though they’re too low for him to hear, and he knows that she’s probably suggesting candidates she deems more suitable. He remembers their conversation down in the valley. He knows little about politics and propaganda (though more than he would like to admit), but he knows the power of morale. If she turns away now, refuses to accept it, all that they have worked for will be crushed – or at least, exceedingly difficult to rebuild. The people the Inquisition has taken under its wing cannot afford to see her falter.

 _Please._ It’s akin to a prayer, but he’s offering it to the woman before him, not to the Maker and His bride. There’s an odd kind of humour to that thought. He’s committed more blasphemy in his short time here than he has during the rest of his life. He prays for her to be brave once more. _Please, Yvaine._

He’s surprised at the sound of the name, even if it’s just in his head. It’s only crossed his lips once: in a besieged Chantry, shortly before she ran to face Corypheus. He doubts she even heard him say it.

She does not falter. Her fists clench, her spine straightens, and she accepts the sword with a quiet, nearly frightening sort of grace.

“I am not chosen,” she begins, “I _have_ chosen.”

An Inquisitor. He never thought he’d see one in his lifetime, never mind know her. Her eyes skim across the crowd, almost as if she’s...searching. He only realizes she’s been looking for him when her eyes stop on him. Few would see it, but there is something guarded, nervous in her eyes, as if she’s awaiting his approval. As if she, too, remembers their conversation from this morning.

He nods in acknowledgement, offering her a smile which she shakily returns, and when he turns to his troops and the survivors from Haven, the pride he shows them is utterly genuine.


	9. Exchange

_Emmeline,_

_Not dead. I just thought you’d like to know. I’ll get someone to send this along as soon as they can, though it’s not an easy journey, so please excuse any delays._

_You’ve probably heard what happened at Haven. To cut a long story short, we have a shiny new fortress, and I survived the attack. I’m luckier than some._

At that thought, her hand begins to tremble so badly that she drops her quill, burying her face in her hands. She rubs at her eyelids, trying to erase images from her mind of mad, howling, crystal-ridden templars, of bodies in the snow. It doesn’t work, but then she didn’t expect it to.

She snatches up the quill again, gritting her teeth.

_Bugger it. I don’t know why I’m even writing letters at a time like this. I need to redraft it but there’s so much to do and bodies to bury and I’m hopeless –_

She crosses that last paragraph out, of course. It isn’t exactly reassuring. She dearly wishes she had family to lean on. Instead, all she has is parents who abandoned her to the Circle when she was a girl, an old, crumpled letter in her pocket and a sister she hasn’t seen in ten years.

The Herald of Andraste burns the letter and refuses to let herself cry. Not yet. Too much to do.

* * *

Something changes after Haven, though Maker knows if she could tell you what it is. And no, she doesn’t just mean her title, though she seems to be accumulating those like diseases.

Maybe it’s that she makes more of an effort to talk to Cullen; maybe that effort is mutual. She doesn’t know.

Skyhold is intimidating and labyrinthine at first, but everyone finds their haunts soon enough, and it’s while they’re walking out of the war room that she asks him, “So. A new office, then?” It’s a stupid question – everyone has one.

He answers her anyway. “Yes. It’s well-situated, and there’s still a lot of repair work to be done, but I think we can fortify it further if we...” He trails off. “You didn’t ask about that.”

She smiles at him. “I was going to.”

He ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. It still takes her aback, sometimes: the intimidating commander of the Inquisition’s armies, _sheepish._ “I doubt that very much. But thank you for indulging me.”

With a grin, she says, “Anything for you.” She flutters her eyelashes at him ostentatiously.

She knows she isn’t imagining the pink in his cheeks. He must hate his fair complexion; sometimes he looks nearly as pale as her, and she’s been in a Circle for most of her life. She wonders if it’s a Fereldan thing – they don’t get as much sun here as the Free Marches. Then she remembers where he was stationed for a decade.

He must notice her squinting at him, because he exhales the slightest sigh, and then he asks, “Is there something you need, Inquisitor?”

Oh. Oh, that’s still odd. She manages to suppress a wince at the sound of it. She notices a strange expression on his face, and he looks at the corridor wall rather intently. She realizes after a moment that he’s restraining laughter.

“ _Titles,”_ she growls. “But yes, actually. Riddle me this, _commander_ : ten years in Kirkwall, and you never even acquired a tan?”

Seeming surprised, he runs a self-conscious hand across his jaw, his fingers grazing the stubble he’s developed by this hour. It’s amusing sometimes, on the days he comes to war councils clean-shaven, to see the way he looks by the time evening comes. “I don’t think I _can,_ ” he admits.

“You’re so Fereldan that even the _sun_ in the Free Marches hates you?”

He gives her a resigned look, and now he really does sigh. “I’d nearly forgotten you were a Marcher. If you start muttering about ‘dog lords’...”

She waves that away dismissively. “Oh no, _I_ like you well enough. I just like laughing at you, too.”

“Well, that’s comforting,” he says with a sardonic raise of his eyebrows. “Especially coming from the woman who ‘spends a lot of time horizontal.’”

“ _One_ slip of the tongue...”

“One _that I’ve mentioned.”_

She glares at him. “You’ve been cataloguing them, haven’t you?”

“No,” he protests. “Well, yes.”

She points an accusing finger at him. “I knew it. You’ve been gathering blackmail material. Secretly you’re worse than Leliana and Josephine put together. I thought you were an honourable man, Cullen.”

As he turns to head into the courtyard, he offers her what she can only describe as a smirk, and a quiet, “Honourable to a point.”

When she finds Varric, the dwarf is watching the steps – or more specifically, watching Cullen, a frown on his face. “Tell me if I’m wrong,” he says, “but did he just - ?”

“Just what?” She’s genuinely confused.

His eyes slide to her, and then he smiles; it’s small, wry, almost wistful. “Oh, nothing.” He crosses his arms, grinning at her. “So, what can I do for you?”

* * *

More often that he’d like to admit, there are bad nights. Ones where he can’t sleep, or when he’s woken by the nightmares. On those nights he reads reports, hoping desperately to bore himself back to sleep and get some work done while he’s at it. On rare occasions, it’s too bad even to focus on those, so he reads for pleasure instead. He tries to replace the nightmarish images flickering behind his eyelids with more pleasant ones – pieces of old tales, or history. There is little time to do it. The Inquisition always needs more from him, and he respects that; he feels guilty when he loses himself in old myths and pointless tales, and so he rarely allows himself to. As often as he can, he tries to make his reading at least somewhat relevant to the Inquisition. That way, he can pretend he’s working and assuage the guilt that gathers heavy in his chest for a little longer.

Today started off well, but now there’s a painful buzzing at the back of his skull; it feels as if insects have made a nest there. It will soon blossom into a full-blown headache. He spends the morning drilling the recruits. He reminds himself not to treat them too badly; it isn’t as if this mess is their fault. He manages to get through it, though Maker knows how.

He’s aware that pain now means that tonight is likely to be a bad one. (Part of him knows that he’ll wake trembling and sweating, unable to focus, his vision blurred. He’ll see the faces of the ones that died, and it will take him too long to remember that he isn’t in the Circle and hasn’t been for years, he is no longer the nineteen-year-old that was broken on that bloody floor...)

He’s doing stance work with the recruits. He’s spent the past half-hour trying to get them to bend their knees and _no,_ put your weight _there_ , not _there,_ if you do that it’s a thousand times easier for your enemy to unbalance you. He understands that many of them are still wet behind the ears, but Maker, this is the kind of thing he was learning at fourteen. Not everyone had the benefits of Chantry training, he knows that, but he does sometimes find himself becoming unreasonably frustrated. He does his best not to take it out on the recruits. He’s almost glad of the paperwork waiting for him; at least it will be a slightly different kind of tedium.

He may well need a distraction, and he’s finished _A History of Nevarran Mortalitasi._  

He takes his lunch quickly in his office, and then he makes his way to the library. It’s extensive, and its reference section is large enough that he’ll likely find something to bore himself to sleep with. He closes the door behind him, and he’s halfway across a shelf, running his fingers over his spines and trying to make a decision, when he realizes that there’s an armchair behind him. And that it’s occupied.

He turns quickly. “Sorry, I – “

The Tevinter grins at him from under that ridiculous moustache. “Why, commander. So good of you to drop in.” His eyes fall to the book. “What’s that you have there?”

“I...” Before he’s quite aware of it, he’s admitting, “ _A History of Nevarran Mortalitasi._ The first volume. _”_

Dorian – that was his name, wasn’t it? – tuts, shaking his head, but the his grin is still very much present. “DuLac? I’m disappointed in you.”

“DuLac is bad?”

“If you want to know about what is a rather misunderstood art, certainly. DuLac won’t help you. He hates the mortalitasi as much as your templars do.”

“They’re not _my...”_

“Southern templars. You know very well what I mean.” The cocky smirk that always seems to hover round Dorian’s lips doesn’t fall. There’s something almost performative in the way he holds himself, the way he speaks and stands and smiles, as if he’s waiting to impress. It feels like the worst Cullen has read of the Tevinter magisters, and it put him on edge in the war room. He wondered why Trevelyan let the man stay, until he heard what had transpired in the future she saw. She maintained that the mage was the only reason she came back alive.  Dorian’s face softens, and he gives Cullen a more genuine smile. “I could find you something better, if you’d like.”

The offer surprises him. He glances down at the book, and finds himself saying, “I’d like that, actually. I’ve just finished it.” His voice seems to come from a long way away.

“Excellent.”  Dorian holds out a hand for the book, and Cullen meekly gives it to him. He’s more than a little confused as to why. Surprisingly quickly, the mage jumps up from his chair and scans the shelves, crouching to run a hand across one of the bottom shelves. “Ah.” He sounds vaguely satisfied, but then he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Fortnam,” he mutters. It’s followed by something that sounds like very much a Tevene invective.

Cullen has little hope of deciphering that, so he waits uncertainly instead. “You’ve journeyed here from Tevinter?” he asks, not wanting to seem unfriendly.

“With the rest of the ancient evil, yes.”

The man’s tone is dry, amused, but it’s still discomfiting. Cullen’s done his best to be open-minded, especially since the events of Kirkwall. Also, he’s had enough of this sort of thing from their new Inquisitor. Now he thinks about it, he can see why Trevelyan and the Tevinter would probably get on. “I never said – “                                                                                                                                 

“Of course you didn’t.” Something briefly crosses Dorian’s face, but it has fled before Cullen can analyze it. “I take it you enjoy reading, then?”

“When I have time.” It’s as honest an answer as he can give.

“I’d hoped there was a brain under that hair.”

Cullen runs a self-conscious hand through it, frowning at the mage.

“No, no, don’t do that. It looks as if you’ve spent a great deal of time and effort on it. I’d hate to be the cause of your dishevelment.” Cullen drops his hand, glaring at Dorian, who simply laughs. “I’m sorry. It really is very becoming, you know. No wonder it’s commented upon so often.”

“It... is?”

“You obviously haven’t heard the other advisers.”                                   

“I - What? _”_ He waves a hand before the mage can even attempt an answer. “Never mind. I doubt I want to know.” He looks more closely at Dorian, realizing that the man probably is the type to spend a long time discussing grooming routines – he seems to be wearing kohl, after all. His attention is diverted by remembering why exactly Dorian is here. “You said that Alexius used some kind of time magic?”

“Ah, yes. That he did. I suppose that this is new to you, seeing as it’s certainly new to those of us in the Imperium.” Dorian sighs. “I could take you through the specifics, but we’d need several hours, and I suspect that the commander of the Inquisition is a busy man.”

“Unfortunately, you’d be right.” He decides not to press the subject. At least, not for the moment.

Dorian seems to search for something, his long fingers running over the spines of books. He crouches, finding something on one of the lower shelves, and then he’s standing and passing a book to a rather bemused Cullen. “Unless you want something else?” He jerks a thumb towards the rest of the shelves.

Cullen turns the book over to read its spine. _Raising the Dead: Confessions of a Necromancer._ “This is better?”

“Better than DuLac, and more readable. But then, so are the cloths wipers use, so that may not be saying much.”

There’s a small, harsh noise in the silence of the library, and Cullen realizes that he’s snorted. Some would find the mage overbearing, arrogant – and he does, but he also finds, surprisingly, that he doesn’t mind. Perhaps he’s just used to it; he may have been spending too much of his time around relentlessly sarcastic mages for his own good. Instead of dignifying that with an answer, he glances round the library. Behind him, next to the plush armchair, there’s a small pile of books, a staff propped against the wall. “I see you’ve made yourself at home here.”

“I’m doing my best.”

Cullen considers the book, weighing it in his hand. “I checked the necromancy section yesterday. I don’t recall seeing this.” He’s always had a good memory. It was something his mother used to compliment him on; they’d never need a list when they went to markets. It was one of the things that kept him alive in Kinloch and Kirkwall, and it’s something he’s afraid of losing. Yet another reason he’s stopped taking the lyrium and is now standing here with a blighted headache, being sassed by a Tevinter mage.

“It’s a personal copy.”

It’s a surprising kindness, and quite a gamble to take upon a stranger. “I see. When would you like it returned?”

“Whenever you finish it. Though for my own sanity’s sake, do try not to imitate Seeker Pentaghast.” When Cullen makes a hesitant motion, miming a book being stabbed, Dorian nods. “Indeed.”

“Thank you,” he says.

Dorian waves his thanks away. “Think nothing of it. It’s not as if I need any more enemies in this place, after all, and a few tomes between colleagues never hurt anyone.”

“Even so...” He hovers uncertainly.

More flapping of hands. “Off with you, before I lose any more of my collection.”

For some reason, he obeys, and he’s still bemused when he reaches his office.

* * *

He’s right. That night is a bad one. He wakes shaking and sweat-drenched, trying to blink away the memories of Kinloch, Kirkwall, Haven that flash behind his eyelids.

The room is boiling even with the cold mountain air, and it’s stifling him. He needs to get out. He needs to escape. He throws on clothes, armour (even in this state, he’s aware of the image he needs to present, and the routine of it is somewhat comforting). When he opens the door, he takes a moment to simply breathe in. Then he’s moving, walking past the soldiers on watch and nodding briefly to them as he does. He tries to at least appear as though he has pressing business, rather than like he’s just wandering the battlements long past a sensible hour.

His heart jumps into his throat when he sees her. She’s sitting on the battlements, her legs dangling over the edge almost childishly, and she’s staring down into oblivion. She looks up at him, and then offers him a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. As if going for a stroll hours after Skyhold has gone quiet and choosing to sit perilously close to death are perfectly normal. Nothing wrong with that, not at all. “Commander.”

He nods, a stiff, awkward thing. “Inquisitor.”

She glances downwards, seeming to realize why he’s gritting his teeth. Her smile becomes more genuine, though the laugh that accompanies it is still far too bitter for his comfort. “Oh, don’t worry. I have no plans to deprive the Inquisition of its leader.”

He takes a few hesitant steps until he’s standing next to her. He squints over her shoulder, trying to work out what she’s holding without being too obvious about it. It’s a small pot of something, the lid resting in her other hand, and after a moment he recognizes the dark purple colour.

“I’ve nearly run out,” she says, turning her head to look at him. Her mouth is bare of its usual colour. “I knew an Orlesian apprentice. She gave this to me, and...” She swallows. “She died at the Conclave. I don’t know where to find this stuff, and I’ll never see her again to ask.” She shakes her head fiercely, angrily. “I know how stupid I sound. It’s not about the paint. It’s not about...” She raises a hand to her face, covering her cheek and eye. He notices that she’s covered the side facing him, and doubts that that’s coincidental. “I heard you talking to Leliana, about the...” A sharp inhale. She doesn’t sound as if she’s crying, but there’s a definite tremor to her voice. “The death toll. I’m sorry too.”

He watches her for several silent moments, surprised to feel worry rising in his chest as he looks at her sad eyes and her downturned mouth. This is the woman he met at the war table that first day: afraid, alone and probably looking for the nearest exit. She is as real as the woman who joked with him this morning about Kirkwall. She _is_ that woman.

“I can’t help but wonder how many bodies I’m going to leave behind me. Everywhere I go, people die. I should have - ” She seems to choke on the words.

He’s had the same thought many times himself, especially in the days after Kirkwall. It’s made a resurgence after what happened at Haven. He is hardly the best person to give comfort, wrestling with his own guilt, but he tries. “It wasn’t your fault.” Somehow his hand has found its way to her shoulder, and he wonders at his presumption.

She stares at it, then him. “That’s a nice sentiment,” she replies bleakly, looking out over Skyhold once more.

He tries to find the right words. They always seem to fail him when he needs them most. “If anyone was responsible for what happened, it was me. It was my job to get people out. And perhaps even before that, I should have investigated what was happening in the templar ranks. I might have...”

She whips around, and he’s shocked by the depth of her anger. “Don’t you _dare.”_ When he simply stares at her, fumbling once more for words, she continues, “You’ve been... I doubt I’ve ever seen you _sleep_. You’ve sweated blood for this Inquisition, and without you, I doubt _anyone_ would have made it out, never mind so many survivors. Don’t stand there and blame yourself.” With that, she’s back to watching the courtyard, though now he wonders if it’s just so that she won’t have to look at him.

He struggles to find a response, then settles for, “I could say much the same about you.” She still doesn’t turn or acknowledge him in any way, and he adds, “None of us would be here if it weren’t for you.”

A harsh laugh is her only reply. It echoes off the stone. Then her shoulders lower, the breath seeming to go out of her. “I meant to thank you for your work. I’ve been thoroughly unappreciative. I didn’t mean to, to berate you.”

When he first saw her, he thought that she seemed almost fragile. Now he realizes that there’s no _almost_ about it. “You didn’t,” he assures her. He acts with little conscious thought, offering her his hand. She turns her head, squinting at it and seeming to debate with herself. Then she replaces the lid on the pot of paint, pockets it and takes his hand, climbing back onto the walkway.

“Thank you,” she says, looking up at him. Her eyes are strange: she watches him for a long time, as if she’s only just truly seeing him.

“I’m... oddly flattered by your tirade,” he tells her. “I think. And I do sleep. I just do it when no-one’s looking.”

She smiles, as if his faltering attempts at humour have woken her from her trance. It’s sad and doesn’t entirely reach her eyes, but it’s something. “I meant what I said. I’m sorry about Haven. But I’m glad that you –  I mean, that so many made it out.”

Though she corrected herself quickly, both of them have frozen at her slip. It’s an admission of some kind, raw and overly honest. He expected her to couch her words in humour or distracting quips, but she hasn’t. He had never considered that he meant much to her – not with so many others in the Inquisition demanding her attention – but apparently she worried for him. Him, in particular. He isn’t quite sure what to say to that.

He can understand worrying for someone. He remembers watching her walk towards certain death and wanting to scream at himself for not doing more...

“Lovely weather we’re having,” she says when he doesn’t reply, turning to leave. “But I should probably...”

He steps forward and speaks, surprising himself once again. “I should have found a better way. We threw you into danger and... I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. Yvaine, you have my word.”

When she turns, she’s grinning. “ _Finally._ The last time I checked, my parents didn’t name me ‘Inquisitor.’” She glances up, looking at the stars. “But thank you, Cullen. I doubt anyone can make a promise like that, but it means a lot that you’re trying.” He wants to protest, but she doesn’t give him chance, saying, “’Inquisitor Trevelyan.’” She exaggerates the syllables, rolling them around her tongue. “It sounds odd, don’t you think?”

“Not at all.” He voted to give her the title, after all.

She raises a brow. “Really? Is that the ‘official response’?”

Just like that, they’re in familiar territory once again. “It could be.”

Something appears to dawn on her. “Oh, _Maker.”_ At his inquiring look, she explains, “I need to write to my sister. She still thinks I’m dead.” She notices his own grimace at her words _._ “My, that’s quite the expression. Any reason for it?”

He leans his arms on the battlements, surveying the fortress. “My sister is also waiting for news. I’ve been forgetful recently. She... won’t be pleased.”                                                                                                                                   

She seems amused. “Well, if she’s half as intimidating as you...” She stifles a yawn. “Sorry. I should head back to bed. Thank you for allowing me my morbidity. Don’t stay up too late – it wouldn’t do for the commander of the Inquisition’s armies to fall asleep on his recruits.”

He quite agrees, but whether he’ll actually sleep tonight, he doesn’t know. Still, he says, “Good night,” watches her go and then makes his way back to his tower, ready to try.

* * *

Two days have passed since that night, and he’s half beginning to feel he’s imagined it. He’s barely spoken to her since, too busy with training and rebuilding to do anything but acknowledge her in corridors. However, he’s with some of the men, attempting to move a few pieces of rubble that are blocking one set of steps to the battlements, when his attention’s drawn by the sound of her voice. He can’t help but look over his shoulder.

“No. I’m sorry,” she’s laughing, “but you’re _wrong.”_ She and her little party are walking through the gates, into the courtyard.

“I think you’ll find that the only one in error here is _you,”_ Dorian replies, sounding equally amused. “Foster’s works are entertaining and rather comprehensive. Honestly, if you’d just read _A Courtesan’s History..._ ”

“ _No.”_ Her amusement only seems to increase. “This is not up for debate. I read his _Treatise on Milliners,_ and it was the most tedious piece of... of... blatant polemic I’ve ever seen. I can’t _believe_ you gave me that... piffle.”

It’s new to him, seeing her like this. The verbal sparring he understands well, but the pure, honest enjoyment on her face... He could almost forget what he saw on his late-night walk.

“Blatant, _finely-written_ polemic.”

 _“No.”_ Another laugh, one which is almost a giggle, escapes from her. He fights the urge to stare.

Then she spots him. She gives him a bright smile, and he raises his hand in greeting. When she turns back to Dorian, Cullen hears her ask, “Did I hear you correctly earlier, or have you been referring our dear commander to texts on necromancy?”

“ _A_ text. Just the one.”

In a second or two, they’re up the main stairs and out of earshot, and Cullen’s left wondering if Dorian is supplying everyone in Skyhold with books. It wouldn’t surprise him.


	10. Healer

_To The Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, Closer of Rifts,_

_Still alive! Wonderful. I wouldn’t be able to annoy you if you were dead. Congratulations on the promotion – I knew you had it in you._

_Rumours about the Inquisition are spreading. One of them is that there’s a Tevinter in your ranks. I’ve seen drawings. He looks roguish and like he might have traitorous plans. Also handsome. Very handsome._

_Along with that commander, Lady Montilyet, and I suppose Seeker Pentaghast is quite interesting in a severe sort of way...Maker. The Inquisition will be famed across the lands for how damn pretty it was, and everyone will assume that academics are exaggerating – and then people will see pictures and tapestries, and go, “Sweet Andraste, they were gorgeous.” They’ll all grow distracted from the actual history._

_Speaking of Lady Montilyet: I met her at a ball about three years ago. I remember her being terrifyingly nice. Not in that studied, “society” sort of way, either, but genuinely lovely. You’re in good hands there._

_It seems that people are starting to like you. I heard rumours that the Herald was seen giving blankets and food to refugees. Was that true, or just another myth?_

_Love and sloppy kisses,_

_Emmeline_

* * *

As much as he likes to pretend that his time with lyrium is over, there’s still some in his blood. A small amount, but there. He knows this not just from the symptoms of the withdrawal but from the fact that he can feel magic: the use of it, the reach of it and the power of it. It’s dulled, a shout reduced to a whisper in the distance, but the sense is there. Through lyrium, templars are in their own way almost as connected to the Veil as mages; he can feel its strength, the tears in it, the push and pull of magic’s currents.

He’ll lose that in time. It’s one of the few things he regrets about leaving the order. Although it’s a reminder of many unpleasant memories, it’s also a useful skill that has saved his life on several occasions, and... Well. It makes him think of the days when he was still a recruit, wet behind the ears and fascinated by magic. He was naive, certainly, but he respected magic as well as feared it. Respected mages. That respect became so polluted and buried under fear later that it was nearly destroyed.

Someone is casting. Repeatedly. It’s a large, powerful field. It’s a way away from the rest of the mages, as well, so he doubts it’s simply training: he’s spent his adult life around mages, he can ignore the unfocused awareness of so many spells. But this? Even here in his office, he can feel it. It races up his spine, makes his teeth grit. It’s not that it’s unpleasant, per se, it’s just that not knowing the source of it is bothering him. He may no longer be a templar, but that kind of energy flying around from an unknown source? It’s probably not good.

He stands, the scrape of his chair loud in the silence, and goes to look for the mage. He heads outside, continuing to follow the pull of magic.

It takes him a while to find it, and his feet end up taking him to one of the training yards. He hears the crackle and sizzle that he’s come to associate with lightning magic. It’s far from subtle, and he wonders why someone hasn’t disturbed the caster before – then he sees who she is, and he knows.

He’s never seen her like this before, and she’s quite something. She’s casting furiously, her staff whipping around with the movements. It’s almost a dance, the movements flowing into one another so smoothly he almost can’t keep up with them. She’s wearing shirts and a gambeson, her sleeves rolled up to accommodate her movements. As he suspected upon their first meeting, she’s strong – lean, wiry muscle moves under her skin, and she hefts the staff like it’s just another limb. The staff makes contact with the ground. There’s a low _boom,_ the entire dummy lighting up as it’s surrounded by a field of lightning. She barely pauses, continuing. Her form is patchy – excellent in some places, sloppy and vulnerable in others – and then she increases her speed, abandoning any pretence of accuracy. Her last two bolts of energy fly wide, hitting a wall.

The lack of control makes his hackles rise, but she isn’t hurting anyone. She’s come here specifically so she won’t.

 “ _Fuck!”_ she cries, and loath as he is to admit it, he almost jumps. She leans on her staff with a sigh.

It’s probably a bad idea to surprise a temperamental mage who looks to be on the verge of casting again. Perhaps he should just walk away and pretend he hasn’t seen this. After all, she doesn’t seem to be aware of him. Instead, he clears his throat and offers a quiet, “Inquisitor?”

He sees her shoulders tense, but she’s been trained well enough that she doesn’t turn and doesn’t raise the weapon. It’s something most apprentices are taught early: don’t raise your staff to an ally. According to the Circles, absentmindedness isn’t a sufficient excuse, and threatening a templar rarely tends to end well.

She inhales slowly, breathing through her nose. Then she turns, offering him a smile that’s wrong, jagged round the edges. “Cullen.”

“Are you - ? Well, you’re not alright. That seems a stupid question.”

“No, it’s...” She sighs again, looking at the ground. “Thank you. It’s nice to be asked.”

Her defeated air and the lack of some awkward quip or comeback... He has to confess, he’s worried. He takes a few steps, ready to – He doesn’t know what, but he knows he should do _something._

She still isn’t looking at him. “I’m no good at this,” she says, after a moment.

“At what?” He edges further forwards until he’s finally standing in front of her.

She raises her head, at last meeting his eye, then looks over her shoulder. “I was a healer, in the Circle. I never wanted to – I never thought I’d have to fight.” Then she looks at him.

He’s unsure how to reply. “It must be difficult,” he tries. “Adjusting to all this.”

“Not really.” She seems to reconsider her answer, and she looks up. He knows that expression: she’s barely resisting the urge to roll her eyes, probably at her own misstep. “Well, yes. In some ways it is. Every time you think you understand the world, it tries to trip you up again.” She looks as if she’s searching for the right words. “I suppose you’re wondering why I’m out here, shouting at trees?” When he nods, she says, “We were... we were out in the field, and we were surprised. There was – a red templar got to Dorian, and it was bad. We were out of lyrium and I was running low on mana, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to...” A sharp inhale. “It could have been far worse.”

“It’s not as if it was your fault.”

Her fists clench, then she crosses her arms and glares at him. “Yes it _was_. I should have accounted for it. I was so focused on the offensive that I didn’t...”

He keeps his voice level, looking into her eyes. “ _No._ You couldn’t have accounted for what happened. The red templars are a new threat, and we’re still learning how to fight them.” He realizes that at some point he’s placed his hands on her forearms, and he’s pressing on them slightly as he speaks. He draws back, raising his palms in apology. “Guilt on its own is just self-flagellation. But if you’d like, we could work out some strategies to conserve mana.”

She’s still watching him. She seems surprised. “I... Strategies?”

“If you think it would help.”

“But I’m not... _you_.”

He cocks his head, puzzled. “Meaning what, exactly?”

“Strategy is traditionally your area of expertise. Last I heard, _commander_ wasn’t just a pretty title.”

He can’t help raising an eyebrow and responding, “You seem to like it well enough.”

She gives him a look that suggests he’s being an idiot. “This coming from Ser ‘Inquisitor!’” She says the title in a low voice, but the vowels and enunciation are exaggerated enough to make it sound painfully plummy.

He’s slightly offended. “I don’t sound like that.”

She grins at him. “Not most of the time, no. You _boom_. It’s very commanding and impressive, I assure you. And then there are the times I hear you muttering about ‘bloody nobles’. I think those are my favourite.”

He stares at her. It sounded as if... “Was that your attempt at a Fereldan accent? And I don’t do that, either.”

“You don’t use as much coarse language, but most of what you say boils down to ‘bloody nobles, bloody etiquette, bloody Game, bloody ruffles.’”

“Really?” He finds that he’s rubbing a self-conscious hand over his jaw, frowning at her.

She grins at him. “Mm. And then you go and call me ‘Lady Trevelyan’. I wonder if I should be offended.”

“I hadn’t considered – I’m sorry.” He forgets, sometimes. The prancing peacocks he’s had to deal with are, well, not like her.

She waves her hand dismissively, and her smile doesn’t fall. “Cullen. I haven’t been ‘Lady Trevelyan’ since I was twelve.”

Is that how she feels? It’s true that mages were traditionally never allowed to inherit titles, but that didn’t stop many of them from carrying around the hubris of their family names all the same. He isn’t quite sure what to say to that, so instead he replies, “I don’t recall saying anything about ruffles.”

She frowns. “Oh? Maybe that was just me.” Then she smiles at him. It’s more sombre than it should be, and she seems to have difficulty meeting his eye. “But yes. Strategies, you said. Well, that confirms it.”

“Confirms... what?”

“You’re trying to teach me ways not to fuck up and nearly get another of my friends killed. Which confirms that I did fuck up in the first place, therefore, it was my fault. As I theorized.”

He doesn’t know how to deal with her when she’s like this. She confuses him most of the time, but here? She’s brittle and hunched over with guilt. One wrong word will likely cause her to lash out, he’s certain of it. He wonders how he knows that, then realizes that the sight of someone like this is familiar: he’s seen it far too many times in the mirror. “No,” he insists. “That wasn’t what I meant.” When she raises her eyebrows as if waiting for him to continue, he says, “The weight of guilt – it will drown you if you let it. And it does nothing but distract you. If you at least give yourself the illusion that you’re doing something useful with it – if you _use_ it – then it becomes more bearable.”

She frowns at him. That frown becomes a glare. “You say that as if it’s _easy._ You don’t have thousands depending on you and making you into a fraud.” He notices too late that there are tears in her eyes. “Making you spill blood for a cause they keep _telling_ you is righteous, but you don’t know, you just don’t _know_ , and...”She raises a hand to her mouth. She stands in the snow, pale and on the verge of tears, her chest heaving. Then she scrapes that hand agitatedly through her hair and grits out, “You tell me you can understand _that?_ So much blood on your hands? _Bullshit_.”

He would like to think he is a better man and a more patient one, but that breaks the final thread of his careful control. She always seems able to provoke the strangest responses out of him, and now is no exception. “Why do you think I left the templars?” he snaps.

He sees something akin to realization dawn in her eyes, but he’s already ahead. He has the advantage of longer strides.

“Cullen!” she calls.

He keeps walking. He’s already regretting his outburst, but he’s unsure how to rectify things.

A hurried crunching of snow. “Cullen.” Her hand on his shoulder. She looks at him, her eyes wide. “I didn’t mean – “

“I’m sorry,” he replies as levelly as he can, his eyes on the trees ahead, “but there’s much to do.”

“Don’t you dare try and... Never mind. I suppose I’d do the same.” She exhales heavily, and then she’s someone smaller and sadder. Her steps halt, and she lets him leave her behind.

He makes it several feet before he looks over his shoulder.

She’s leaning on her staff, visibly shivering in the cold mountain air, and her eyes are impossibly sad. He remembers the fragile, scared-looking woman who walked into the war room and watched them all as if she was fighting not to turn on her heel and run. He’d almost forgotten her. She’d been easily replaced by the grave, dutiful Inquisitor or by the laughing woman who flirts with Cassandra and teases him. Now she’s here again, with her head bowed and her posture defeated. Perhaps she was always here.

He turns. “Yvaine.” He finds himself walking back to her. “You’ll freeze if you’re standing still out here.” He unclasps his cloak, throws it over her shoulders. He’ll survive. Marchers tend to be less robust, and he’s heard her muttering about the weather occasionally. She doesn’t wear enough layers. (Maker, now he sounds like his sister.)

She raises her head. “I... Surely you need this?”                                                                                               

“It’s likely you’d be surprised by the amount of padding under this.” He gestures to his breastplate. “We should probably return to Skyhold.”

“Yes, we should.” She takes a few steps, the two of them beginning the walk back, and then she says, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair of me.”

With a harsh laugh, he replies, “You say that as if I was any better.”

“You were. Ignore me, I’m a sod when I’m, how did you put it, self-flagellating?”

“I, ah...”

She laughs, her face suddenly brightening. He’s relieved to see it, though it’s probably at his expense.

“What?” he asks.

“Do you have... an itch?” When he just frowns, she slowly raises a hand to the back of her neck in what he realizes is an imitation of him.

He feels the beginnings of a flush creep onto his face. It’s an old habit, one that sometimes makes him think that that young, awkward templar recruit might not be so buried after all. “I... no! I just – “ He looks at her face. “You’re mocking me, aren’t you?”

“No!” she protests too vehemently. “Well... yes?”

“I take it that means you’re feeling better?”

“I think so. Thank you, Cullen.”

When they reach their destination, she heads through the door of the infirmary, and he hears Dorian call, “Do you have grapes? If not, I’m not interested.”

She gives him a wave and a smile, then calls back to Dorian, “No grapes. Well wishes?”

“Those won’t do nearly as well, but for you, I’ll pretend.” She enters the room, and the mage remarks, “You appear to have a bear on your back. I was just wondering if you’d noticed.”

At this point, Cullen wisely turns and continues on his way back to his office.

* * *

People tend to assume that the withdrawal is simply nightmares.  Even Cassandra makes that mistake.

In actuality, there’s a dream that’s worse in some ways than bloody stone, the sightless eyes of his fellows and relentless promises. It’s rarer, but it visits him on some nights.

This is one of those nights. Perhaps it’s because of feeling the Veil earlier and realizing just how much he will lose. He doesn’t know.

In his dream, he is strong, abuzz with lyrium and the certainty of purpose. His armour weighs nothing and is comfortable as silk. He stands tall, without the ever-present ache in his joints, and he is _complete._ The hollow ache of having something missing has gone. He is anchored, connected, the Veil comforting in its solidity.

Then he wakes up. Always, he wakes up.

The pain and the tremors return. His body aches for something it can no longer have. He’s sweating, gasping for air. Terror has a hand round his throat, choking him, and it refuses to let go. What will he do without it? Why did he think he could do this? He curses the withdrawal. He curses foolish ideals that will matter little when the world ends. He curses the lyrium. He curses the idiot thirteen-year-old who thought he knew what he was doing when he pledged his life to a corrupt cause. He curses the man who in his hubris thought that he could leave the order behind, who was trying so desperately to prove that he wasn’t Meredith. He curses the Inquisition and the Breach and himself, always himself.

The emptiness and the desperation and the pain crash into him again, leaving him reeling, and he finds that he is sobbing with the brutal suddenness, the unfairness of it. He can’t breathe. Maker, he can’t _breathe._

He scrubs roughly at his eyes, stumbling to his feet and nearly falling. The scrape of his chair makes him wince. His movements are slower and unsteadier than he’d like. He blinks in the half-darkness, his eyes still watering, and then he makes his unsteady way over to the ladder. He still isn’t quite used to the layout of this room. Sometimes he wakes and for a moment thinks he’s still in Kirkwall. On the worst nights, it’s the barracks in Kinloch, and on others, he thinks he’s at the house, with Mia snoring a few feet away and the dawn soon to come. Those nights are better.

He’s glad he locked the doors. The candles have burned low, but they’re still burning, and the thought of some recruit coming in and seeing him in this state is an unpleasant one.

Clothes. Armour. Routine. He clings desperately to routine, even as his head pounds and nausea rises in his throat. Breathes in and out, pretending that his chest isn’t tight and his lungs don’t feel ready to burst.

He’s halfway across the battlements when he realizes that someone is leaning on them and surveying Skyhold. Somehow he knows exactly who it will be, even before the fur at her shoulders confirms it. She turns. “Can’t sleep?” she asks.

“No,” he replies, joining her and watching the fortress. It’s not as if much is happening, but the sight of it, solid and quiet, is somehow reassuring.

“I was just coming to see if you were up. Some of the soldiers were saying they’d seen candles burning in your office. I thought you might like this back.” She steps back, carefully shrugging off his cloak and offering it back to him.

“Thank you.” He takes it, putting it back on and tying it back into place.

She watches him carefully, eyes narrowed with concentration. “That looks overly complicated.”

“I quite agree,” he mutters. “Josephine and Leliana insisted on all this... pomp.” That said, impractical armour is far from new to him: he spent twelve years as a templar, and sometimes they were more concerned with presenting an image to the mages than actually manoeuvring in the provided plate.

“You do realize you have a large cut on your cheek?” she says after a moment. Her voice is as casual as if she were discussing the weather. “And that it’s bleeding quite impressively?”

“I hadn’t, no.” He must have gained it fumbling around after the nightmare (if nightmare is the right word for a dream that is terrifyingly pleasant). He grimaces. Now that she’s pointed it out, he can feel something cold and wet on his face. Damn.

“Some templars could be rather skittish about this.” She raises her hand, makes no move to touch him but holds it between them. “Would you mind if I...?”

Truthfully, yes. He would mind very much. But healing he can deal with. He thinks that he compartmentalizes it and makes an effort to separate it from the magic that harmed him. He isn’t sure. Perhaps it’s simply that being healed was often necessary for his duties. As long as he’s conscious to see what’s happening and to have some control over the process, it doesn’t bother him unduly.

“Go ahead,” he manages.

She touches his cheek gently. He sees the glow of magic at the corner of his eye and chooses to focus on her face instead. She’s frowning, biting her lip in concentration. He suddenly realizes that during her excursions with the Inquisition, she’s somehow been in the sun enough to gain the lightest dusting of freckles. They’re barely noticeable, only visible this close.

“Done,” she says brightly, surprising him. He thought it would take longer; she must be quite proficient. She withdraws her hand. “Thank you for that. It’s nice to use my magic for something good, for once.” She yawns. “You were right earlier, by the way. At least, I think you are. Guilt and snapping at your colleagues doesn’t achieve much.” Before he can say anything to that, she continues, “Now I’ve returned your... pelt” – she waves a hand in his cloak’s general direction – “I think I’ll be off to bed.”

He searches for words. “Good night,” he says eventually.

She’s already turned and is heading back to the main fortress. He watches her go, raising a hand to his cheek and finding that, much to his surprise, he does feel slightly better.


	11. Nightingale

They haven’t spoken of it, and Leliana almost wonders if he remembers it: the fallen Circle, the bloody floors. The wild-eyed boy who begged them to kill the mages.

It’s hard to see that boy in the man who works with her, and for that, she’s glad. It makes things less... awkward, and it shows how far he’s come. She’s surprised his ordeal didn’t drive him mad. Even more so that Meredith didn’t, either. The commander they trust with the Inquisition’s troops is a very different man. A strong one.

And yet sometimes, when she goes to pray and finds him already at the feet of Andraste, sleepless, or when she sees his hands shake from the tugging of the lyrium leash, she remembers. She looks in his eyes and knows that he has not forgotten. He seems to sense her gaze, for he looks anywhere but her. It happens rarely, but it does happen.

However, she watches him – as she watches everyone – and as their strange organization blossoms, so does he. He is still strained, tired, but the shadows are retreating from his eyes. On the rare days she remembers, the broken Circle behind her eyelids when she blinks, she sees this new man and thinks that all may not be so lost after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just written because, as someone who took Leliana on the Broken Circle quest, there's some interesting/painful shared history there, and while I'm glad they both seem to have moved on, I'm surprised it wasn't really acknowledged. I get why )development limitations, etc.), but it's a thought.


	12. Retrospect

He’s on his way to the armoury when he spots Cassandra sitting behind va desk. She’s frowning at a book. He needs to ask her a question, and so he clears his throat, waiting.

She looks up, seeming to panic, and shoves the book into a drawer under the desk, closing it quickly.

He walks until he’s in front of her, leaning against the wall, and then asks her casually, “Is that volume two or three?”

He’s probably imagining it, but she seems paler. “Of... of what?”

“You do realize you leave your copies of _Swords & Shields _on the war table?”

“I – I – “ She sighs. “Volume three.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Back in Kirkwall, some of the junior recruits used to leave a copy on my desk every time a new volume came out. They thought I didn’t know. They seemed to find it amusing.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“You don’t know?” he asks in surprise. When she doesn’t reply, he says, “’Ser Roland Blatherford’?”

“I had wondered, but I didn’t think Varric would be so blatant _–_ “                                                 

“I take it you’ve seen his shirts? I have to wonder how the man ever runs a spy network.”

Cassandra laughs slightly. “You’ve been around the Herald for too long.”

That’s more truthful than even she knows. He rubs a hand over his forehead, admitting, “Yes, perhaps I have.”

“Besides, Blatherford isn’t so bad...”

“Cassandra, he’s a bigoted, bumbling caricature.”

“For some of the series. By the end of volume two, he is quite – quite sympathetic.”

“That’s debateable,” he mutters, looking out of the window.

“Have you read volume three?”

He turns his head, seeing that she has raised the book. “No, I haven’t,” he says eventually.

“He becomes a hero. He’s shown to be a good man. He even... he even finds love.” The last part is added softly and tentatively.

With a snort, he says, “Someone ought to speak to Varric about the inaccuracies in his work. They’re becoming flagrant lies.” He can’t take the weight of Cassandra’s sad gaze, and so he adds, “Speaking of the Herald – have you seen her?”

Now it’s Cassandra’s turn to raise a brow. Wryly, she replies, “Our new Inquisitor is attempting to write a letter, I think. I saw her above the gardens. That was some time ago.”

* * *

_Emmeline,_

_ TITLES. What did I say about titles? _ _~~I will come down there personally, you know I will~~._

_Anyway: the promotion. You knew I’d make a good Inquisitor? Well, that certainly makes one of us. I’m struggling not to show them all that I want to run away and hide under my blankets. Behold, the brave, fabled Herald of Andraste._

_The Tevinter is called Dorian, of House Pavus. Roguish and handsome? Yes, I suppose he is. He’s certainly very enjoyable company. You would like him, I think. It’s difficult not to. He’s sharp and witty – some would say arrogant – but he’s a good man. He’s kind: soft-hearted, though he tries to hide it behind quips and the odd bit of academic snobbery. He’s also bloody good fun._

_I know you have your heart set on our dear commander, but_

Behind Yvaine, someone clears their throat.

She jumps, folding the letter in two – dammit, she’s probably smudging the ink – and looking over her shoulder.

“Do you have a liking for heights?” Cullen asks. He’s giving her that soft half-smile that says he’s likely mocking her, but that it’s friendly.

She remembers their conversation on the battlements a couple of nights ago. “Not particularly, but it seems that when this fortress is involved...” She grins at him.

“I’d thought I might find you in the tavern,” he admits.

“So had I,” she replies. “But I decided I’d rather like some fresh air that didn’t smell of booze or old boots.” Then she beckons him over. “Come on. I’ll show you why I’m here.” When he does, coming to stand next to her and leaning his arms on the wall, she says, “Look. You’ve got this tree, and well, it’s a lovely tree.”

“It’s a sandfor oak,” he says.

She looks at him in surprise. “Do you spend a lot of your time staring at trees?”                              

He keeps his gaze on it, seeming to hesitate for a moment, and then he replies, “We had one in the garden. I remember it from before I went to the Chantry.” Something in his eyes is thoughtful, far away. She wonders where his mind is. She wonders whether it’s any of her business.

“Would it still be there now?” she asks.

She sees the answer in his face before he speaks, and almost instantly regrets her question. “Almost certainly not. The Blight devastated the region. We – Much was lost.”

There’s more to what he’s saying, she’s certain of it, but she isn’t sure she wants to know what that “more” is. He doesn’t want her to know, and that’s what’s important, so she doesn’t push. It isn’t her place to ask. “Oh. I’m – I’m sorry.” He shakes his head slightly, a silent pardon, his eyes still on the tree, and she tries, “There’s also this wall.” She gestures to the wall in question – slightly falteringly, realizing that he probably hasn’t understood.

He just looks at her questioningly, a brow half-raised. There’s a certain expression he has, and she can’t quite explain it, but somehow he manages to communicate perfectly, without speaking a word, _You’ve said something completely ridiculous. I’m curious to see how you’ll dig yourself out of this conversational hole._

“It’s not quite flat, but...” She shows him the board, thin and a little like a slate, that she places under her letters when writing. “If I put this down on it, it’s at quite a good height for writing.”

She sees him nod, and then he turns a cautious eye to the inkwell she’s placed on the wall a few inches away. “If that falls, there’s a good chance it could land on someone’s head.”

She leans a little to watch people walk past, the garden full of Skyhold’s denizens making their way to their business, bustling around and perhaps stopping to chat a little if there’s time. She hears a few people praying. She won’t admit it in a hurry – she knows that it sounds as if she’s prying, and that’s partly because she _is,_ even though she doesn’t intend to – but she likes to keep half an ear on the prayers. It’s not that she likes listening to people’s trials: there’s often not much she can do, and so listening ineffectually just becomes an act of selfish, morbid fascination. She enjoys the sound of the Chant. It’s oddly soothing, even though she can find little spiritual reassurance in it herself. It’s a low murmur that echoes off the walls, almost a lullaby – and indeed, there’s something lulling about it. Listening to it, if you’re in the right mood when it finds you, it can be the sound equivalent of your mother running a hand through your hair and telling you that everything will be alright.

A stupid thought, really. Her mother hasn’t done that since she was twelve years old. Besides, the woman was very happy to ship her off to the Circle – if anything, she seemed terrified of her own daughter when the magic manifested – and so, in the end, everything was very much _not_ alright.

“Inquisitor.” His voice is soft, a good accompaniment to the Chant that floats quietly around them. “Are you alright?”

Perhaps that’s it, actually. Perhaps she speaks so often with him for the same reason that she seeks the Chant. She finds that she likes his company. He’s... solid. Yes, that’s probably the right word. She’s heard people called “a rock” or “like a rock” before, and she can’t say that she’s ever understood it, but in his case, she can. He’s quiet, stubborn, and if he’s being worn down, it’s so slowly that you can’t really see it.

She tries to smile. “Oh. Yes. Just working out trajectories, and so on. Do you think that if this inkwell _did_ drop on some poor soul’s head, it could be fatal?”

He cranes his neck and peers over the wall himself, as if giving that prospect serious thought. She finds the sight oddly comical. “I think you could likely render a man unconscious,” he says after a moment.

“I see.” Her smile is genuine now, and she can’t resist the way it creeps over her face.

He looks up, back to her, and seems to notice her cheer. The corners of his mouth raise ever-so-slightly, and suddenly he’s sharing the joke. It’s silent, but comfortable in the air between them. He looks back to the garden, watching the comings and goings as she was earlier.

“Are you sure there’s nothing troubling you?” he says, once a minute or two has passed.

She wonders why she’s pushing the question. “What makes you think that?”

“You, er, you didn’t protest when I called you ‘Inquisitor.’ You must have been distracted.”

She laughs. It’s a low thing, more deep in her chest than in her throat, and the sound is unexpectedly harsh. “Of course. No, nothing a few troops can help with, commander.”

She sees it cross his face – a tightening of the mouth, a flash of hurt in the eyes – before it’s gone again, and he’s assumed the careful templar blankness that she remembers from the Circle. That reminder is hardly helping her state of mind, but that is less important than the fact that she seems to have hit a nerve. Again. Well done, Yvaine.

“I’m – I’m sorry,” she starts, “I didn’t mean it like that. My mouth runs ahead of my brain sometimes.”

A second passes. Then he says, “I’ve noticed.” His tone is wry, humouring her, and she thinks that she’s probably forgiven.

She leans an elbow on the wall. “I didn’t mean to slight your... advice, and what you do for us here. At all. I just meant, well. I was thinking of the Circle. Thinking too much in general, really. I came up here because it was quiet, but now that I consider it, maybe leaving me with my own thoughts is a bad idea. There’s not much anyone can do to sort this out, unless they can turn back time. Or get me drunk. That might distract me from the moping, at least.”

“You could ask Dorian. He seems to have considerable expertise on both solutions.”

She looks at him askance, and then laughs. “Not bad. Needs some work. Honestly, some of them aren’t even that funny, it’s just how straight-facedly you deliver them.”

“Deliver what?”

“See, that’s what I mean.”

He ducks his head with another one of those slight smiles, and she thinks again what she thought in Haven – she’d like to be his friend. He’s an interesting man, and not the sort of person who flaunts how interesting he is, either. Dorian could learn from that. He’s also kind, in a curt way. Bright without being pretentious.

“Was there a reason you came to find me?”

There it is: that rubbing at the back of his neck, the subtle tensing of his shoulders in his embarrassment. She wonders if he’s developed the habit because of the armour. Maybe he’s forgotten why he was ordered to come here. “Ah, yes. Leliana and Josephine told me to... bother you.” It seems to be the best word he can find. He raises his brows, possibly in despair, giving the sky a long-suffering look. “They were considering calling a war council. We were reviewing approaches for entering Crestwood.”

She nods briskly. “I see. Tell them...” She takes a moment to deliberate. “In an hour?”

He bows his head, and he’s suddenly the stiff, formal commander again. It’s all in his posture, his bearing - in the way he straightens, regarding her levelly and answering near-instantly, “Yes, Inquisitor.” It’s strange to see. There’s no hesitation over his words: he seems to be more comfortable with the security of his title, his responsibility, rather than less. Almost her exact opposite. That thought has a dark sort of comedy to it, in her opinion. His gaze falls to the folded letter in her hand, and his eyes grow warmer, kinder, shortly followed by the rest of him. “Were you writing to your sister?”

She’s surprised he remembered – she’d barely mentioned it, and they’d both been tired, drawn at the time. “Indeed I was. Emmeline’s very curious about it all. She’s eighteen, and she’s” – she huffs a laugh at her own admission – “very bored. She’s the Trevelyan daughter now, so it’s all politics and gowns.”

His sudden pained expression and his rough, “I don’t envy her that,” make her laugh properly.

“I’m sure. I’ve heard you with Josephine.” When he looks guilty, she continues, “I agree completely with your contempt, I assure you. I’m just very glad that you aren’t our diplomat.”

His own harsh laugh. “As am I.”

“I admit, I liked the gowns. The rest of it I don’t miss.”

He looks at her for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful. She realizes that he’s never seen her in a dress, and she wonders if he’s trying to imagine it. Then he turns his head, his eyes back on the garden, the slightest hint of pink climbing up his cheeks. “I’ve never been too fond of them myself. I’m glad to be rid of templar skirting.”

She considers leaving it at that, letting the silence stretch until he leaves or offering a polite dismissal, but she doesn’t feel right doing it, so after a few silent seconds have passed, she says, “Thank you, Cullen. For asking, and for... trying. I’m sorry for being such underwhelming company.”

He looks at her properly then, seeming genuinely surprised. “You weren’t. There’s no need to apologize. If anything, your attitude thus far has been admirable.”

“Really? Even with the inappropriate quips?”

“Even considering those, yes.” It’s gentle, again seeming so at odds with the brusque man she often sees around Skyhold. “Many would simply panic with such a burden placed on their shoulders. Instead, you have brought us here.”

“I think that was Solas.”

His eyes are still on hers, intent, refusing to let her bat his words away or hide from them. “He directed us. But your bravery and your decisions have made this Inquisition what it is.”

She doesn’t know what to say. She panics under the weight of such faith, and yet it warms her. “I... Thank you,” she manages eventually.

A nod. “Inquisitor,” he says calmly, the meaning of the word now finally seeming to sink in to her addled mind, and then he walks away, leaving her staring after him.


	13. Red

It takes him too long to notice. Perhaps he’s becoming rusty in his old age. Leliana would probably say something similar.

He finds the Herald in the corridor to the war room, buttoning up a dark grey coat over her tunic. Morning light creeps in through the gap in the wall, pale and wrapping shadows around her, rendering her hair a bright, washed-out yellow. She drapes a scarlet scarf over her shoulders, around her neck. The actions are hasty, as if she’s left it too late to prepare and is running late. (She isn’t. He’s here early. Her nerves seem unwarranted.)

He clears his throat. “Inquisitor.”

She jumps, her shoulders tensing, and turns sharply, giving him a quick, awkward smile. “Oh. Cullen. Hello.”

He cocks his head, looking at her outfit in surprise, assessing her. For a moment, he could almost think that she’s simply another of their mages; she’s essentially wearing the standard uniform, complete with an Inquisition pin to hold her wrap in place.

Suddenly he understands. Of course. That’s the idea. It’s a message: she _could_ be any other mage. She’s still desperately dodging the Herald image. He finds himself smiling, though he isn’t entirely sure why – it’s humble, and it’s entirely like her.

She must see it in his eyes. She smiles at him, a hint of apology in it, and says, “I didn’t really think that green and orange were my colours. I thought I’d go for the flag instead?”

He searches for his words. “You – you wear it well.”

She grins, spinning round, her arms held out at her side as if to show him the outfit. “I’m glad I meet your approval.” She finishes her turn and gives him a wink worthy of Hawke’s pirate friend.

He feels heat crawling up the back of his neck. Did he sound as if he was flirting? He didn’t think so, but... Perhaps he did.

“Anything interesting going on in there?” She raises her eyebrows, leaning forwards slightly on her toes.

Realizing he’s been lost in his thoughts, he coughs and raises his hand to his mouth. “I, ah. Troop movements.” _Yes, that was_ terribly _convincing,_ a voice in the back of his mind says. It sounds worryingly like Yvaine.

“I see.” She looks at the door to the war room and then at her feet. “I thought I’d best be prepared. More so than usual, I mean. We’re going to meet Hawke’s ally in the Wardens. I get the feeling things might become... complicated.”

He raises an eyebrow. “’Complicated’?”

“I like the story of the brave Wardens defeating the Fifth Blight as much as the next person, but Wardens getting involved – even just one – is, well, rarely a sign of anything good.”

“I agree.”

She looks surprised at that. “Strange to hear from someone who lived through the Blight.”

He inhales quietly and almost inaudibly, careful to keep his breathing steady. The Blight is a subject that’s raised often, still relatively recent and fascinating to those who don’t entirely comprehend it; even so, it’s not one he enjoys talking about. “Is it?” He makes sure there’s no sharpness to the question. “Wardens are only needed in times of death and destruction. It’s rarely heartening to see them, even if there are many of us who owe them a debt.”

There is a creak as the door opens, the sound of footsteps, and the buzz of voices rises, filling their small hallway. Josephine and Leliana greet them, chasing away the quiet conversation, and the meeting begins.

* * *

He makes a point of getting out of Skyhold now and again. Besides, if he doesn’t, he begins to itch.

The Herald and her group left several days ago, and should have arrived at Crestwood. Meanwhile, he’s on an excursion to the Hinterlands, taking a look at some of the logging posts the Inquisition has claimed. It’s a relatively simple matter but an important one, and the fresh air – _proper_ fresh air, not just the mountain breeze found in the Skyhold courtyards – seems to be doing him good. Besides, it’s valuable to speak to the troops, to be seen as vital rather than only a fixture behind a desk.

He’s looking through his supplies, carefully ignoring the wooden box he brought “just in case” at the bottom of his pack, when a messenger says, “Ser.”

He raises his head.

“A missive for you, ser.” The boy (for he is barely more than a boy, young and pink-cheeked, evidently nervous) hands over a piece of parchment.

He nods. “Thank you.”

The boy (Fredric? Cullen finds to his shame that he’s unsure) departs as hastily as he arrived.

Cullen unrolls the message, frowning at it.

 

_Commander,_

_We’re back at Skyhold. We found Hawke’s Warden friend. She just neglected to mention that that friend was Warden Alistair. As in, Warden-Constable, helped save Ferelden from the Blight Alistair. He seemed a little curt at first – it’s clear the years have been difficult – but he’s warming up.  I’m impressed; he is actually quite funny, even if some of his quips are even worse than mine. I hadn’t expected that from a Warden. He’s quite doe-eyed over the Hero, too. I’m surprised to see that rumour was true, but far from displeased – it’s quite sweet, actually. Apparently you knew Amell? He said your name was familiar, but didn’t elaborate._

_Apparently the Wardens are experiencing some sort of mass Calling. It’s due to Corypheus. And blood mages are involved. Why are blood mages always involved?_

_I doubt my boots will ever be the same again. I’ve been squelching my way round Skyhold, much to everyone’s amusement, even though we’ve been on dry land for several days. I’ve tried taking them off and cleaning them several times. I think I may have to give up and invest in a new pair. It wouldn’t do for the “mighty Herald of Andraste” to reduce her foes to laughter before she’s even attacked them._

_I hear you’re in the Hinterlands. Something about logging? I hope you’re doing well. If you happen to find a non mud-filled pair of boots while you’re there... Never mind. I’m sure I’ll get round to buying some from the merchants in Skyhold._

_Will you be back soon? We ought to call a war council. If you’re not too busy yelling “Timber!” and making the recruits all starry-eyed. Maker, no-one’s let you near an axe, have they? Now I think about it, I’ve seen you in the training yard. At least then you have the excuse of ‘it’s training.’ If you decide to let out years of deep-seated issues with an axe, you may need to make the uniform trousers for your troops regulation brown. Simply an observation._

_Yvaine_

_(Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, First of the Trevelyan heirs, so on, so on, why are you still reading at this point?)_

He finds much to his surprise that he’s smiling, even with the joke about his “deep-seated issues” (Maker, if only she knew) and the mention of Amell. In fact, he’s on the edge of a laugh. This is different from her reports; it’s less formal, and even in writing, her voice is clear. It’s... amiable, somehow, as if she’s sitting next to him even now and making silly comments. His mood is suddenly much improved. He sits for a few moments, thinking over his reply, and then takes out his writing materials, beginning to pen his own letter.

 

_Inquisitor,_

_Thank you for your concern, and for the information. I hadn’t been aware that the Warden in question was that Warden, so thank you for letting me know. Yes, I briefly knew Amell. We were at Kinloch Hold at around the same time; she was one of the mages I supervised._

_And yes, I will bear you in mind in case I see some non-waterlogged boots._

_I will be back within a fortnight, I think. “Making the recruits all starry-eyed”? I sincerely doubt that’s the case. Isn’t that your job? I have been nowhere near any axes, luckily for your delicate temperament and the bowels of the troops. I may do some actual logging if it is required, but I doubt it will be._

_Cullen_

_(Inquisition commander, so on, so on)_

* * *

The reply comes nearly a week later. It simply reads:

_Why commander, are you mocking me?_

The troops exchange worried looks at his grin, and he sends a messenger with a report. Enclosed is a short note.

_On the matter we discussed:_

_I would do no such thing, Inquisitor._

* * *

He arrives back at Skyhold a week later. It’s been a long ride, and his tiredness is making him clumsy on his feet and in his head. He’d like nothing more than to rest.

Unfortunately, the war council is summoned less than half an hour after he arrives. He stands, ignoring the pain in his back, and crouches to slide the box out from under his desk. She’ll understand; he’s almost certain of it.

She’s alone in the war room. This is far from unusual; she is often either the first or the last to arrive, and he’s always fairly early. She looks up when he enters the war room, a smile dawning on her face. It’s bright and rather infectious. “Commander.”

He nods, gently passing her the box across the war table. “Herald.”

She frowns in confusion, a question in her eyes. Even so, she opens the box with careful fingers, her brows climbing. “Oh,” she murmurs. “I didn’t think you’d...” For a moment he’s worried, but then she looks up at him, and her smile has widened to a beaming grin. “Just what I needed.” She places the box on the war table, being certain not to scatter any markers or damage the maps, and then lifts a boot, turning it around to examine it.

They’re plain, dark brown leather. They buckle tight to the legs, but they should be comfortable. He chose them himself. He’s bought boots from the merchant before, and they’ve always been of good quality. It was only five minutes’ work.

He says, “They’ll need waxing now and again – or an enchantment – but they should be satisfactorily waterproof.”

“Thank you.” There’s a smile hovering at the corners of her mouth, but it’s small, genuine, and she sounds frighteningly earnest. “How much do I owe you?” When he waves away the question, she stares at him. “Cullen?”

“It doesn’t matter. Really.”

She nods. “I’ll accept that.” After a pause, she says, “You know, I was wondering about red.” She raises a finger to her mouth, and then he understands. “But I think it’s more Hawke’s colour than mine.”

The reminder of Hawke is far from welcome, but she’s unaware of the history there. Unless Hawke has explained it; the thought is far from a pleasing one. He reconsiders her outfit. He’s not sure where his words come from or why he says them. They seem to fall from his mouth without thought. “Or perhaps... black?”

Surprise crosses her face. She grins at him, saying, “A bold choice. I might scare off all the children. Still, it’s no scarier than having a bear on your back.”

She’s looked back to the maps before he realizes what she means. He sighs. “It’s a lion, actually.”

She glances up, an eyebrow raised. “Oh?”

“It’s...” He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, irritated by the habit. That of course makes him more self-conscious, which means that his nervous habits become even worse. He sees the Herald’s amusement as she watches him war with himself. It doesn’t anger him; there is no cruelty in it, more... an odd sort of fondness, as if she is used to this. Perhaps she is. He continues, “It’s a red lion pelt.”

“Is it a Ferelden thing? This obsession with skinning things and wearing them?”

He glares at her. “Ferelden is far from the only nation which wears furs.”

She concedes that with a tilt of her head. “Mm. But it _is_ the only nation which seems to do it all year round and incorporates it significantly in their royal attire.”

He can’t help a pointed question of his own. “Do you spend much of your time studying Ferelden?”

She continues looking at the markers. “More studying Fereldans.”

Before he can ask what that means, the doors open and Leliana and Josephine enter the room, followed by... ah.

He’s almost too tired to hide the change in his face when he sees Hawke and Alistair. Both bring their share of bad memories (a burning Kirkwall and a coward leashed by Meredith; bloodied walls and screams and the haze of pain and the knowledge that he will not, _cannot,_ make it out of this alive and with his soul intact...) and they are far from the people he would like to see here. This place is supposed to be clean. A new start, and one unstained by his past. Here he can be someone else and perhaps even someone better.

This is necessary, however, and so he schools his face into impassivity. He sees Alistair do the same, years of templar training being put to good use.

Hawke’s smile is a razor and her eyes are cold. Blood is smeared across the bridge of her nose, stark against the pallor of her skin. It’s yet another reminder, another thing unchanged since Kirkwall. Her eyes are steady upon him, and he can’t help but feel as if he’s being targeted. “Knight-captain.”

His hackles rise. “It’s commander now, actually.”

She nods. “Of course. My mistake.” Her eyes are still cold, and her expression tells him clearly that it was no mistake.

Now is not the time to say something. The meeting continues without a hitch, but he doesn’t miss Yvaine pretending not to watch him carefully, her eyes occasionally returning to Hawke.

While he knows that her questions are inevitable, he still won’t enjoy answering them.


	14. Chains

Yvaine manages not to be too distracted by Hawke’s death-glaring at Cullen throughout the meeting, but it’s difficult. She knows that they were both in Kirkwall, knows the reputation the templars there had, but she still has to wonder what could be so bad that it’s poisoned things even now. She wants to ask. Part of her needs to. But she sees that look in Cullen’s eyes – part shame, part anger turned inwards – and the way he barely looks at anyone. It’s the expression he only seems to get when the sins of his order are mentioned. She sees that look, and she hesitates. She realizes that the answer probably won’t be a pleasant one, and there are more important things to concentrate on – or at least, that’s what she tells herself. Perhaps she’s just a coward.

At least some of her questions are answered when they leave the war room, only Hawke and Cullen electing to stay.

She’s making her way down the corridor when she’s stopped by the sound of Hawke’s voice through the door. It’s quiet, considered and utterly acidic.”So where is my sister exactly, knight-captain?”

A pause, and perhaps the hint of a sigh. Yvaine isn’t sure. And then Cullen says, “She’s safe. She’s working with mage children in the Free Marches. Making sure they aren’t caught up in the war. Has she... has she not told you?”

Yvaine shouldn’t be listening to this. Yet something makes her pause and lean against the wall. Masochism?

“She has. I was just checking to make sure you cared, seeing as _you_ got her into this bloody mess in the first place.”

“I made sure the Gallows were stable before I left. And at the time I thought it was the best place for her.”

“Interesting, your idea of stable. You thought they were _stable_ when _Meredith_ was in power.”

“I know I was wrong - ”

“You were. And you thought it was the _best place for her?_ You thought a _cage_ was what she deserved?”

The silence is terribly loud. A second passes, two, and then he says, “No. I thought that she would be protected from the chaos in Kirkwall, and I thought...”

“Better to be in the Gallows than free? Free, where she could choose what to do with her life? Where I could... where I could look after her?”

“Hawke...”

“No, that’s what _you_ thought she deserved. What was it you said? Mages aren’t - ”

“ _I know what I said,_ and I was wrong.”

“Oh, so you finally admit it? Couldn’t you have come to that conclusion before you dragged my sister out of the house?”

“I didn’t – Hawke, she turned herself in. I couldn’t just ignore...”

“You ignored Anders for long enough, and he did much worse.”

“You’re right. That was a mistake.”

A sudden, rattling _thud_ of flesh against wood that makes Yvaine jump. Hawke must have slammed her hand against the table. “But Bethany wasn’t?”

“She’s free. You know that.”

“But not by your hand. That matters to me.”

“Hawke, I’m sorry.”

“Bit late for that. What about the other mages you imprisoned? The ones you sent to be abused, the ones you made Tranquil, the ones you let templars – “

“I didn’t _know!”_ It’s the first time Cullen has raised his voice. “I should have, and I didn’t look closely enough, but I didn’t _know.”_ His careful enunciationis slipping, and his voice is shaking, rough. “It was reprehensible and I was negligent but I was terrified. I tried to change things, to stop Meredith’s excesses, but there was only so much I could have – “

“There was _much_ more. Stop lying to me, and to yourself.”

“I’ve often thought the same, but it’s too late now. All it would have done was make Meredith kill me, or leave me on the streets to be...to be like _Samson.”_ The disgust in is voice is all too apparent. “At least where I was I could do some good.”

Fuck. Yvaine realizes belatedly that her eyes are stinging, and she blinks furiously. Kirkwall... it’s as bad as people say. And the idea that he was involved... No.

“Maybe.” Disgust is in Hawke’s voice, too, but it’s very evident that the target isn’t Samson. “Is that what you think you’re doing here? Doing good? Or is it another power grab? Are you just playing nice with the Inquisition, with the _Inquisitor,_ to get an army on your side?” She exhales sharply. “Oh, that’s a thought. Trevelyan. Have you told her about this mess? About you? She’s a good woman. Far too good to be anywhere near you. If this fight against Corypheus kills her, what are you going to do? Celebrate? It’d be one fewer mage, wouldn’t it? I bet that’s what you think every time you look at her...”

“ _No.”_

“No _what?”_

“I won’t allow it, Hawke.”

“What will you do? Smite me? I wouldn’t, it might let them see through the act. You know the truth, knight-captain. Stop pretending you’re an excuse for a human being.”

“I...” A definite sigh, and yes, his voice is definitely shaking. Yvaine realizes with some surprise that she can imagine it: she can see him in her mind’s eye running a desperate hand through his hair, leaning heavily on the war table. He sounds so utterly tired when he says, “Leave me be, Hawke.”

“You know what? I think I will. I don’t have much more to say.”

Yvaine is just too late to move and start walking down the corridor, to pretend she hasn’t heard. The door swings open and Hawke walks through it. Her eyebrows raise in surprise when she spots Yvaine, but then she simply gives her a jaunty wave and keeps walking.

Cullen is much as she imagined him: his head is bowed, his hands on the edge of the great table. And Yvaine doesn’t move quite fast enough.

He looks up. His eyes catch hers, widen, and his mouth opens to say something...

She turns, starts walking, and prays to a Maker she doesn’t believe in that Cullen won’t be stupid enough to follow her.

* * *

She’s in the Herald’s Rest a couple of hours later, sitting in her dark corner and nursing her ale, when there is the slightest change in the air, and suddenly Cole is sitting opposite her.

She cocks her head and frowns at him. “How do you do that? The chair didn’t even creak.”

“It didn’t want to,” he answers, as if it’s that simple. Maybe for him it is. Then it’s his turn to frown – he stares at her intently, his brow furrowed under the permanent hat, and then he says, “ _Bleeding, better, born again. He never hurt them but it hurts_ him, _and he wonders. He wishes. Cruelty without care but he changed...unmade but unbroken. He has no excuse. He is no excuse.”_

“Oh,” Yvaine manages, after a moment. She doesn’t want to think about this. She doesn’t want to consider it. Just when she was starting to like Cullen, too. But wait... “He never hurt them?”

“Not in the way you think. Not in the way he thinks, either.”

She nods, taking a gulp of pisswater ale, and when she looks up, he’s gone. And then another voice reaches her ears from downstairs.

“I’m just saying, maybe you could’ve handled it better.”

Hawke replies, “He’s an ass, Varric. I don’t see why I should pretend otherwise.”

“Because he’s become slightly less of an ass? And because now the Herald’s involved?”

Yvaine sighs and lets her forehead fall to the table, both due to the stupid title and the fact that she can’t seem to get away from this entire fuckup.

“She’s not - “                                                                                                                                                                                            

“They work together, Hawke. I think they might actually be friends, if Cullen can be friends with anybody. I think she’s involved.”

“I just didn’t want to let him off the hook,Varric. He deserves...”

“Maybe he does. But now isn’t the time.”

“There’s never going to be a time, is there?” A low, inelegant grunt. “For once in your life, Varric, _don’t lie.”_

“I, uh...”

The door shuts.

As unobtrusively as she can, Yvaine walks over to the railing and leans over it, saying, “I promise I’m not _trying_ to eavesdrop.”

Varric looks up from his place at the bar, and there’s more sadness than surprise in his eyes when he replies, “Yeah, I know.”

She makes her way down the stairs – her feet perfectly steady, because although she would like very much to get drunk, she’s the Inquisitor now and that might even be worse than the Herald – and comes to stand next to him. “Drink?” she offers.

“Sure.”

Cabot glares at her, but he glares at everyone, so Yvaine’s learnt not to take it personally. Besides, she much prefers it to some of the obsequiousness she’s seen since she was appointed. It’s strangely egalitarian of him.

And so she and Varric end up sitting at the bar, nursing a tankard each in semi-miserable silence, until Varric says. “So. Cullen.”     

“What about him?” It’s just a little too high and fast to be casual.

Varric gives her a _look_ and brings out the eyebrows of disbelief, then he sighs. “Sure, he was kind of an idiot. But somewhere along the way, he started pulling that stick out of his ass.”

Yvaine can’t help but stare at him.  “Are you giving a _good character testimony_ for _Cullen?”_

With a shrug, Varric says, “I – might be? I mean, he’s not the same man Hawke knew.” Another sigh. “I assume you know he helped kill Meredith?”At Yvaine’s nod, he takes a swig of his ale and continues, “It turns out he got sick of the shit she was pulling. He’d been trying to organize passive resistance already, keeping it quiet, getting the templars on his side rather than hers, doing his best to keep the mages under his watch. I think he turned a blind eye a few too many times, but that stopped.”

She remembers the way Cullen never seems to sleep, his harshness on negligence, and a few pieces begin to fit together.

“I didn’t like him much. None of us did. Meredith was obviously grooming him to take over, but honestly? He was just a kid. Took me a while to realize, but once I’d left Kirkwall I started to see how screwed up the whole thing was. He was maybe twenty when he got shoved into that promotion, and half the time he looked like he was bricking it.”

Yvaine winces at the thought, and then at another.”But Hawke’s sister – “

“I don’t think she’s ever forgiven him for Bethany. Or for any of them. And I can’t blame her, but I don’t think he has, either. Why do you think he quit the order?”

Yvaine chews that over and then says blithely, “Cassandra made him a job offer?”

With that _stop fucking around_ expression he’s so good at, Varric says, “Uh-huh.”

She finds, to none of her surprise at all, that she doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. Clapping him on the back, she says, “Thanks, Varric. Lovely talk. See you tomorrow?” Then she’s swinging her legs over her stool and heading out of the tavern. She needs to shoot lightning at something, and stop wondering why this is bothering her so much.

Sadly, she only makes it halfway to her makeshift training spot at the edge of Skyhold before she’s stopped by a messenger.”Inquisitor!”

She suppresses her sigh, tries to look cheerful - it isn’t the poor messenger’s fault, he’s only doing his job – and says, “Yes?”

“I, uh...” He gives her a starry-eyed look that makes her clench in a _please don’t do that_ sort of way. “A letter for you, your worship.” He thrusts a tattered piece of paper at her. There are talon-marks on it, and a section looks like it’s been bitten.

She smiles at him, even if it comes out crooked and probably doesn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you.”

The starry-eyed look doesn’t fade, but he nods and hurries off somewhere, a few scrolls under his arm. Probably to deliver a few more missives around Skyhold.

Maybe some of them are for Cullen, but Maker, she really doesn’t want to think about him right now, so she changes course and heads back to the main hall, heading through it. A few nobles glance at her, but she gives them her best cheerful-but-busy, “must dash, urgent Inquisitorial business” face. It seems to work – she makes it to her quarters in one piece.

She sinks to sit down on her bed, rather surprised by the fact that she bounces. She tests it out again, and sure enough, another bounce. This mattress is so much softer than the one she had at the Circle, or the rickety soldier’s cot she had at Haven. She doubts she’ll ever be used to it. She half-laughs at that: never mind the bed, she doesn’t think she’ll get used to _any_ of this, glowing hand and all.

She exhales slowly, then unfolds the parchment, preparing herself for reports of a failed mission or worse, a letter from her parents. Instead, what greets her is Emmeline’s handwriting: girlish, curling like a true nobles, but friendly. It has nothing on Cullen’s careful, readable script – Maker damn it, _no –_ but she thinks it’s pretty all the same.

 

_Yvie,_

_Got your “I’m alive” letter. Glad to hear it. The alternative would have been dreadfully inconvenient. I’m sending you more thought-chocolates. You can enjoy them in your very much living mind. (I love you, sister. Don’t die on me.) Mother and Father are relieved but still horrified by the whole “Herald” thing. I don’t think that will ever get better._

_The Corulets’ boy keeps looking at me and muttering about marriage prospects. Could you by any chance come down and frighten him? Maybe blast him with your glowing hand?_

_Love,_

_Emmeline_

 

Yvaine realizes she’s grinning, and finds herself grateful for her sister all over again.  It’s nice to hear from someone who’s never been near bloody Kirkwall.  It’ll be a good distraction to pen a reply, so she wanders over to her desk, grabs a quill.

_Emmeline,_

_You’re forgetting that I haven’t been in high society for years. Who are the Corulets? Who is this boy? And I can’t “blast” anyone. I suppose I could open a rift and suck him into the Fade?_ _Would that help? I’m sure he’d have a lovely time with the desire demons and... whatever else is in the Fade._

_Thank you for the mental chocolates. Oddly enough, I’m glad to be alive too._

_Looking forward to your next letter,_

_Yvaine_

She really is. At least her sister’s antics might distract her from everything going on here.

She sighs, not wanting to send a messenger for her personal deliveries, and so she’s soon out of her chambers and heading back across the main hall, trying desperately to put her “on way to important Inquisitor business” face back on. Then she’s heading through Solas’ strange little office – she doesn’t see him, so he’s probably brooding in a corner somewhere - and giving Dorian a wave as she makes her way through the library. She takes the steps up the rookery two at a time...

...And then stops. For Maker’s sake, must she keep running into people conducting their private business?

“You think you’ve found her?” Warden Alistair’s voice. It’s cheerful, and he sounds far less tired than he has in the time she’s known him.

Leliana replies, also sounding unusually and frighteningly cheerful, “Or at least, a place she can be contacted, yes.”

“Good. That’s...” A low, harsh laugh. “That’s good.” There is the sound of a quill scratching against parchment.

“You must miss her,” Leliana says.

 “I do.” More scratching. “Very much.”                                                     

Yvaine walks slowly up the last few steps and clears her throat. She’s had enough of eavesdropping. Leliana is feeding her birds, and Alistair is at Leliana’s desk, writing a letter. Yvaine thinks she knows who it’s for.

“So,” Yvaine begins. “I’d like a letter sent.”

Leliana smiles. ”Certainly.” She gestures Yvaine over.

Yvaine obeys, and while Leliana is attaching the letter to... er... “Baron Plucky,” Yvaine looks around the rookery.

The Warden in the corner looks up and smiles at her. “Hello again.”

Yvaine tries her best to smile back. “To you too. I couldn’t help hearing... er...have you found Amell, then?”

He smiles down at his letter, looking for all the world like some kind of lovestruck teenager, and Leliana says from behind her, “We may have.”

There is a flutter of wings, Baron Plucky sets off with his cargo, and Leliana wends her way to the desk, a small smile on her face. “Don’t forget to ask her whether she’s worn that dress I bought her.”

Alistair frowns at her, pausing in his writing. “The silk one?”

“In midnight blue.” Leliana nods.

That small smile appears on his face again, and he looks as though his thoughts are far away. “She wore it once.”

Leliana nods, her mouth a moue of concession. “That is... good, for her. I expected it would be never, with the way she feels about skirts.”

He grins. “It was a _good_ once. She wore it when some nobles were nosing around Vigil’s Keep. I just about dropped my plate when she walked in.” He leans on his elbow with a sigh. “Which was awkward, since I was officially _only_ her lieutenant.”

But Leliana is grinning. “Ah, so it had the desired effect.”

Alistair stares at her. “But you bought that when – when Morgana and I weren’t, we hadn’t...” He seems to notice that Leliana is still grinning. “Oh, I can’t _believe...”_

With a dainty little shrug, Leliana replies, “It’s not my fault you were a little dense.”

They seem to notice Yvaine a few yards away, trying not to stare at this new Leliana and to sneak out of the rookery.

Alistair gives her a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I just thought...” He looks back at the letter, sobering. “We don’t know what’ll happen at Adamant. I thought I should try and send her something before we set off.”

It’s a thought Yvaine’s been trying to avoid. The march starts the day after tomorrow, and Adamant will be brutal. The thought of the soldiers they could lose, the people she knows personally they could lose... Apprehension coils under her skin, making her itch.

Yvaine nods. “Fair enough. Though we should hopefully all come out of it in one piece...”

He concedes that with a nod and a raise of his eyebrow. “Hopefully.”

Yvaine departs the rookery, just glad the Warden’s unfinished business is somewhat happier than Hawke’s, and does her best not to think about Adamant.

Hmm. Letters. That’s an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apropos of nothing - Varric's assessment reminds me of Joker's about Garrus: "He's pulled that stick out of his ass. But now it looks like he's trying to beat people to death with it."


	15. Return

She composes a letter in the quiet of her room. She’ll give it to Josephine, she decides. Leliana is evidently busy, Josephine’s done most of her work already, and she’ll pass it on if something goes wrong...

Yvaine doesn’t know why she’s euphemizing it. If she dies. Because this will be possibly the bloodiest battle she’s ever seen, and there’s a fairly good chance she will. It might just be a passing rock, or a Warden’s sword, or - She’s tried everything, but they’re going to lose people. Soldiers, yes, but people all the same. It would only be fair if she died with her troops. She vaguely remembers some old saying about captains and ships, but it won’t quite come.

So, yes. A letter, just in case.

  
_Emmeline,_

_If you’re receiving this letter, unless there has been a very fine administrative fuckup, then I’m dead. I’m sorry. I’d really rather not be dead, in case that isn’t obvious. You were eight the last time we spoke - really spoke - and I would have liked to see whether you ever got round to dyeing your hair red and driving our parents mad, the way you always swore you would when you were grown up. I’d have liked to see how strong the family resemblance is these days._

_Most of all, I’d have liked to see you happy. I realize my death may quite possibly make a dent in that. If it helps, the work I do with the Inquisition is very worth dying for. It means I get to save people like you, and our parents, and my friends. Even if I haven’t achieved any of that, if the Breach isn’t closed, I died trying. There are worse causes. It might make a good story for parties._

_Think of me occasionally? Maybe that’s selfish to request. And if at balls there’s a small voice in the back of your head mocking something frilly and Orlesian, it’s probably me. I just thought I’d let you know._

_I love you. I wish I’d told you that one more. Fewer bad jokes, more important things. No time now._

_Your sister,_

_Yvaine_

  
She does a reread and thinks it’s almost enough. With things like this, a letter will never be enough - but she can pretend. She’s dry-eyed, resigned. Frankly, it bothers her how used she’s becoming to the prospect of her death, how matter-of-fact.

She picks up the quill, considers writing a letter to her parents, and puts it down again. In all honesty, what would she say? What could she say, exactly? Not much of use.

She leaves the letter on her desk. There are still other amends to be made. She thinks of Cullen, and Hawke’s words, and Varric’s, and Cole’s... It’s all too much. She’s angry, hurt - tired. So very tired. She sighs, then she heads to bed. In the morning. Surely things will look better in the morning.

* * *

 Dawn comes too fast. It feels as though she’s barely closed her eyes when she’s woken by the toll of a bell. That bell tells her it’s time for a war council soon - she probably has about half an hour. Normally the thought wouldn’t be an unwelcome one. At times, she’s enjoyed them very much, seeing as she likes her advisers more than she probably should - but today, she thinks of last night’s events, and Adamant before her, and she wants to shrink. Maybe hide under the covers and never get round to coming out?

She sighs. She’s the Inquisitor - she can’t afford to bury her head in the sand, much as she’d like to. That said, there’s a fair bit of sand on the way to Adamant. She might have the opportunity later.

She climbs out of bed, running a hand through her hair. She considers whether the Inquisitor would be allowed to wander into the main hall with bedhair and bleary eyes. It doesn’t exactly help the menacing, slightly professional image she’s probably meant to project, but since when has she been any good at that sort of thing anyway?

She hesitates, then decides it would be best to get herself ready; she needs to put the Inquisitor mask on for a while, especially if she’s going to be in the same room as Cullen. She’s not sure she can face him as _Yvaine_ at the moment. She’ll need to - she can’t just put this in a box and pretend it isn’t happening, not with a battle like Adamant in front of him. His plans put him on the front lines, and if he dies thinking... Well, she’s not sure what he’d be thinking. He’s always been a little unreadable to her.

But then there’s the matter of what she’s thinking, and that’s a whole other kettle of... worms? Wait, no, that’s not right. Maker, history will say that the Inquisitor was an idiot. Wonderful.

It’s a quick matter of a few ice and fire spells to get a bath sorted out, and after she undresses, she relaxes into it with a sigh. It’s of course then, when she’s half-asleep and warm, that she realizes what she should do. She wants to put it off further, but her fingers twitch and her shoulders tense. There just isn’t time.

She scrubs all that needs to be scrubbed, dries herself as best she can, dresses, and begins a second letter. The bell rings again far too soon - five minutes, only five minutes, dammit - and she signs it, making her way to the war room.

It’s a slow, boring meeting. She can’t muster her usual cheer after recent events, and so it’s stiffly formal as they go over strategies.

Cullen runs over the plans, and he’s blunt, professional. She remembers the awkward, intimidating stranger she met in Haven, and is dismayed to see he’s made a reappearance.

“It should give you the chance you need,” he finishes. He hasn’t looked at her once while detailing the plan, and she’ll quite probably go mad if she has to endure any more of this. She almost takes him aside and asks to discuss what happened, but there’s too much to do. Too many people to see.

She pretends it’s that, anyway. It can’t be that her throat closes up and the words simply won’t come when she looks at him. She can’t offer absolution, no matter what some say, but she might be able to offer some understanding - and yet, Hawke’s across the table watching them both and the battle looms before them and if she says the wrong thing, if she stumbles and blurts out something foolish, it might undo the friendship she thought she’d found. There has never been a worse time, or a worse place, so she waits.

She can speak to him later, or after Adamant. Or if she’s not alive to do it, there’s always the letter in her pocket.

The meeting proceeds as usual, offering her nothing new, and then they all make to leave. She quietly stops Josephine and passes her the letter, making her instructions clear.

* * *

 That day passes in a flurry of preparation, and before she can quite steady herself, it’s gone. The morning comes, and with it, the march. She tries to steady herself, and thanks the Maker she doesn’t have to address the troops. They’ll be looking for a Herald, and all they’ll find is someone as scared as they are.

She takes Cassandra, Dorian and Varric. Their presence is a balm, especially Dorian’s.

Varric is... slightly more complicated. “Why don’t you just talk to him?” he asks.

Cullen’s up ahead with some of his troops, running through trebuchet... strategies or... something. Honestly, it’s all a bit of a blur. She can do technical specifications when it’s about magic, but this is different.

“I will,” she sighs. “But there are more important things to worry about.”

“Sure, sure,” Varric says, nodding. “Never mind that everything’s finalized and I just caught you and Dorian having a twenty minute conversation about the use of the word ‘wheretofore’.”

“It is important,” she protests.

“To you, maybe. And you’re both wrong, by the way.”

“Oh, thank you. And what exactly would you suggest?”

“I’d suggest stopping with all the mournful glances and actually discussing this shit with him.”

“I meant grammar. But thank you, and I’ll bear that in mind.”

She thinks she hears a low “bullshit” behind her, but she doesn’t turn. She just keeps walking.

She’s rather unsurprised when, all through the march, she mysteriously doesn’t find time to talk to Cullen. Disappointed in herself, certainly, but unsurprised.

The hours pass, and then the day, and the sun dips over the horizon. They camp, and it’s the largest camp she’s ever seen. She has to wonder how anyone can possibly coordinate an entire army to find places to sleep and keep out of each other’s way. She wonders if that’s yet another of Cullen’s jobs, if he has to work out the orders to hand down to all the officers and such. She should probably know more about this sort of thing, seeing as everyone keeps telling her that it’s her army.

She sighs, making a mental note to do some research. Maybe ask him about it, if she survives Adamant.

The next day dawns bright and clear, perfect weather for a march, and she barely seems to have got her boots on - they’re the ones he bought her and they really are beautifully water- and sandproof, she’ll have to thank him, again, if she survives this - when they’re arriving at Adamant.

It’s quite something to watch: a writhing sea of troops before and around her, sand rising with the flurry of soldiers’ feet, with the force of their attempts to batter down centuries-old doors. Calls and cries, repeated attempts. And at the head of them, barking orders but otherwise an island of stillness, is their commander. She wonders how he manages to stay so focused - he seems certain it’s only a matter of time until they breach Adamant.

Meanwhile, her hands are shaking on her staff and she feels like something’s sitting on her chest. It would probably be unfitting if the Inquisitor threw up in the midst of her entire army. She looks to her side, to her people, and Dorian offers her a grin. She sees the same worry in his eyes, but she’s glad he’s at least trying to reassure.

The desert watches, stark and silent, as calls go up from outside and inside the fortress. The Wardens know they’re here. Well, they weren’t exactly subtle. She catches Dorian muttering the same thought, and they exchange a glance and a laugh. It’s something normal in all this. It might just be enough to keep her sane.

Proceedings continue, and she’s more than a little surprised to see Cullen chipping in along with his men. Now she thinks about it, that’s exactly the sort of thing he’d do, and she should have expected it.

Then, with a sudden crash of planks and stone and no warning, they’re through the doors.

“Here we go,” Varric says behind her.

She’s still trying to straighten her spine and pretend she isn’t terrified when Cullen’s stepping forwards, looking at her like she’s his last hope. He talks about having a way through, asks her to help the troops, and there’s something familiar in his face - she remembers it from a half-destroyed Chantry in Haven. It’s almost a plea.

She nods, taking it all in, and then thanks him. She sees surprise cross his face, but then the Wardens and the demons are upon them and there’s no time to think at all.

* * *

It is a thing of nightmares; it is the thing of his nightmares, in particular.

He watches, stiff, helpless, as she falls. As the rift takes her.

It’s only when one of his men takes his shoulder, says something to him, that he realizes he’s stepped forwards. As if there’s anything he could do here, anyway. The soldier asks him, with the tone of a man repeating himself, “What are our orders, ser?”

He hesitates. He wonders himself. A journey into the Fade isn’t one that’s returned from. She managed once, but that was different, and this...

She’s gone. He braces himself, tensing, trying to accept it while every bone in his body rebels against the truth. Yvaine Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste and the Inquisitor, their last hope, is gone.

He pretended to prepare for such a contingency, but he told himself it wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. It would be... unfair. But what does a man like him know of fairness? He laughs under his breath, quiet and a little unhinged, and hopes that none of his men have heard.

“Continue,” he says bluntly. “It’s all we can do now.”

The soldier nods, relays the order, returns to the thick of the fight. He continues, too, not wanting to make himself a liability; it is the last thing his troops need, and it is the last thing she needs. This Inquisition will not sit on its laurels. It will find a way. It must.

He pretends that’s all it is: the Inquisition, the loss of the Mark and its owner. But this? This is far, far worse than the last time he watched her die. He has seen her come back from the brink; he’s watched her shake and tremble in the face of such responsibilities, he has seen her mourn those she’s lost, he’s sat with her and listened to her and called her Yvaine, and behind the Herald title and the Trevelyan name, he’s found a woman of such... importance. Not in the sense of her rank or her skills, either. He has seen a woman who passes blankets to refugees; a woman who fears, who jokes to cover such terror, and yet continues; a woman who can make even him laugh, and even on the worst of days; a woman of compassion and more strength than she knew. When he spoke with her he could almost pretend he was... better. The man who died in Kinloch Hold, perhaps, or a new one. She was the closest thing he’s made in all of this to a true friend.

And now she’s dead. She died knowing the truth of what he was, and quite understandably, she was disgusted by it. It’s only what he deserves.

He fights as best he can, pretending his mind isn’t elsewhere and his hands aren’t shaking, until the Wardens are all but beaten and the battle has come to an end, and then -

And then there is a sound, and the sky cracks open. He remembers the Temple of Sacred Ashes and shrinks from it, but he sees...

He sees Yvaine, stepping out from the rift, her hair bright with Fade-light. The scared, jesting woman of war meetings and their early conversations is nowhere to be seen; she closes the rift with a snap of her fingers, her walk tall and proud, a sway to her hips he’s never seen before. Truly, she looks like the fiercesome Herald described in the tales, intimidating and...

The thought occurs to him, sudden and strong, like a strike of lightning. There’s danger in the length of her stride and the twist to those dark, familiar lips, but there’s beauty, too. He’s always had some awareness that she’s a good-looking woman - certainly, the troops have always seemed to think so, and he supposes he can see the appeal, particularly when she smiles - but this is different. This hits him like a blow to the head, rendering his mouth dry and making him fight not to stare, and all he can think when he looks at her is -

 _Exquisite_ , something in the back of his mind whispers.

Ah. He tries to banish the thought, banish all of them, but it’s no good. He knows what this is; he’s simply glad she’s alive, and he’s misinterpreting the feeling as... something else. Something unwise to dwell upon, something he can’t afford to indulge. She is the Inquisitor, and he can’t just -

No. He pushes it to the back of his mind and watches her address the troops. The Warden, Alistair, is with her, but he doesn’t see Hawke. He wonders why, but he has a feeling he knows. It’s confirmed when Yvaine speaks of Hawke’s death, and he wonders who will deliver the news to her sister. Then he sees Varric, and knows.

He watches her return to herself. That blazing power fades from her eyes, and she suddenly looks at the soldiers pushed aside by the rift. Even from his position, he can see her worry, the way she seems to shrink and become someone else. She helps them to their feet, checking them over as best she can. She speaks to Alistair, quiet, polite, evidently thanking him for his help. She says something that makes him laugh, and then they nod to each other as he hobbles back to what’s left of his army, two leaders seeming as uncertain as each other.

Then her eyes fall to Varric, and the look of utter despair that crosses her face frightens Cullen, even if he can only see part of it. He sees her stumble to apologize, to say some nebulous right thing, with little success.

She straightens, heading down the steps, and he sees her gaze settle on him. Her gait has changed: it’s more uncertain, and he realizes that she must have injuries; she’s probably beginning to feel them in the aftermath.

He raises his chin, assumes his rank like it’s a cloak as she approaches him. It’s the safest option.

He waits for coldness, for disappointment and formality. But she smiles at him, and he tries not to show his surprise. And then she says, “Well. It looks like I’m alive.”

“So it does,” he responds, his voice fainter than he intended, the truth of it hitting him with the words.

“Excellent work, Commander.”

He finds the words coming forth without much input from his brain. “I could say the same.”

She glances over her shoulder, to where Varric is silent and still, far from the crowd, and her smile becomes something sadder. “With reservations. But I appreciate the thought.”

Before he can reply she’s ducking past him to greet the troops and return to her friends. He sighs inwardly, wondering if they will ever truly talk about what happened, and pretends not to feel hollow as he watches her smile, clap Dorian on the back, try and comfort a Cassandra who looks almost as shocked as Varric. He wonders again what happened while she was in the Fade, but there’s little time to dwell on it. She’d probably putting a brave face on it for the troops, not wanting to air her grievances with him here. He can understand that, he supposes.

The march ahead feels long, but they’ve had a victory. It’s come at a cost, but it’s still a victory.

* * *

He finds the letter after he returns to Skyhold. It’s been placed on his desk, and the envelope, in a familiar, spidery hand, is his name. He sits, his entire body seeming to ache, and looks at it. He considers simply leaving it. He’s unsure he’ll be able to read it and pretend he’s still functioning. He doesn’t know why one more rejection should bother him; surely he should be used to it by now.

He thinks of what his mother would say - best to get the worst over with - and sighs, a quiet exhalation in the silence of his office. Then he opens the letter and begins to read.

  
_Cullen,_

_I left this one with Josephine. We’ve both seen her work, and I think we both know that she’s the most reliable person in Skyhold. Well, aside from you. You’re organized enough to be a freak of nature. But anyway, I knew it would get to you. I asked her to deliver it if I - well, euphemisms are just lies with a pretty dress on, as my sister likes to say. This letter assumes I’m dead. There we are, I’ve said it._

_I won’t pretend to know what happened in Kirkwall. I wasn’t there. I’ve heard the stories, and no, they aren’t flattering - but honestly, neither are the Chantry’s stories about me. It often seems like history’s just written by the most famous liars. They only tend to leave me more confused than ever._

_I know pieces: Meredith, the Circle, the templars pushing for Tranquility. The thought of it all used to horrify me. It still does. I get the feeling I wouldn’t have lasted long in the Circle. I’d probably have gone mad, or ended up with a brand on my forehead._

(The latter, most likely. He winces, pretending the thought hasn’t occurred to him before, and makes himself read on.)

_I don’t know much more than that. I can’t know what was, just what is._

_I don’t look at you and see a man without remorse. I see a man who left the order that had sheltered him since he was thirteen, and took a chance on a quite possibly mad group of heretics, because he thought it was the right thing to do. I see a man who wants to end the mage-templar war._

_Whoever you were in Kirkwall, it looks like you’re someone quite different now. I look at you and I see a brave, honourable man, and most importantly, a friend. That might be overly forward of me - is someone your friend if they’ve expressed no opinion on the matter one way or another? - but there we are._

_So, I’m dead. Sorry about that, and about me getting soppy. Frankly, I would have liked to spend some more time embarrassing myself in front of you and nicking that ridiculous cloak, but we can only have all we want in the Fade. I didn’t want to leave you thinking I hated you. It just didn’t seem right, somehow._

_Thank you for your work here, and for saying I was a good choice for Inquisitor. Blatantly untrue, and honestly, perhaps it’s taking a white lie a little far if a nation’s fate is involved, but thank you all the same._

_Hawke is wrong. You’re a human being. Not a bad one, either. Whatever’s going on in that odd, coiffed head of yours, please try your best to remember that._

_\- Yvaine_

  
He reads it once more, his hands trembling, and then he folds it as carefully as he can, puts it in his pocket and goes to find Josephine.

She’s in her office, as usual, and she looks up when he enters the room. “Ah. Commander.”

It takes him a moment to find his voice, and he ends up silently waving the folded letter in the air like a fool. He manages at last, “Was this meant to be sent?”

Recognition lights in her eyes, as does wariness. “It... No, it wasn’t. But it most likely needed to be. I saw that something had gone on between you, and it seemed she was having difficulty rectifying it herself.”

“I see.” He isn’t certain he does, but he nods and says, “Thank you for being honest.” He hesitates, but he knows there’s someone else he must see. “Do you know where she is?”

“She was in her quarters when I saw her last.”

“Thank you,” he says, already setting off to find her.

He knocks at her door quietly, hesitantly. This is her turf, and this is the first time he’s come to find her here. He wonders whether he should have waited and found her later, elsewhere, but it’s done now and he feels the need to have this conversation before his courage deserts him.

There is a creak and the sound of a bolt being slid back, then the door opens and reveals a surprised, slightly dishevelled Yvaine. “I - Cullen.” Her face is bare of her normal makeup, and the morning sunlight makes her hair shine, lends a warmth to the paleness of her skin. She wears a simple linen shirt. She looks like a different woman from the one at Adamant, and yet for some reason, the sight of her quiet vulnerability almost makes him smile. That is, before he remembers why he’s here.

He clears his throat. “This was on my desk.” He raises the letter.

Her eyes fall to it, and then widen. “Oh, fuck. How did - ?” She shakes her head. “It’s open, so I assume you’ve read it.”

“I have,” he manages. “Would you have told me any of this?”

She cocks her head, a subtle sort of panic dawning on her face. “I... might have? I just couldn’t find the right time, and there wasn’t - I thought it was worth saying.”

“Thank you.” He says it too fast. “Especially with what happened at Adamant. I thought I’d - I thought we might have lost you.”

She grins at him, and with a small, sheepish shrug, she says, “Still here. Still alive.”

He finds himself smiling. It always creeps up on him when he’s around her, somehow. “I suppose you are.” He offers her the letter. “If you’d like this back, I can - “

She wraps her hand around his, presses the delicate parchment into his palm. “It’s yours. It always was.”

The quiet wraps around them in the empty corridor. Even through his glove, the lyrium remaining in his system means that he can feel the hum of magic beneath her skin. Perhaps it should bother him, but he doesn’t shrink from it; instead he does as she asks, and after a moment of hesitation he takes the letter, pocketing it.

He says, after what feels like too long, “How are you?” When she just frowns, he tries, “Losing Hawke can’t have been easy.”

She sighs, and she seems to dim a little, even in such bright sunlight. When she looks up, she nods to the room behind her and says, “You might as well come in.” She takes a few steps back, leaving the door open.

He pauses on the threshold, uncertain, and then tells himself to stop being so stupid. He steps through, closing the door behind him.

He can’t help looking around in surprise. They really have spared no expense. The last time he was here, it was a drafty, crumbling part of a ruin, and now there’s a fire burning, a large, four-poster bed, and what might even be carpets.

She smiles, again seeming bashful. “I didn’t ask for any of this. I think there might even be a private cellar.” She takes a seat at her desk, the motion loose and graceful, crossing one leg over the other. He notices then that he’s barefoot, and something about the picture she makes takes him aback. He’s rarely seen this woman before, and he admits at the back of his mind that she might have a certain... appeal.

He takes the seat opposite her and says, “I think I might have to complain to our builders. I’m starting to feel hard done by.”

She laughs quietly, and then her gaze falls to her desk and she sobers. “To answer your question: I’ll live. I’m not sure Varric will be the same, but...” She sighs, shrinking.

“It wasn’t your fault.” It sounds too much of a platitude, but he means it. They’ve all heard what happened at Adamant, and there was no better way.

She shakes her head, still unable to look at him. “I could have chosen Alistair. I just thought the Wardens needed one of their own to rebuild, someone who could...” Another sigh, and she finally meets his eye. “I’m not sure why I’m trying to justify this to you. You won’t exactly be mourning Hawke.”

It should probably be a low blow, but he remembers what she saw of Hawke and knows how she could come to that conclusion. He finds no anger in him when he responds, “You might be surprised.”

It seems she is; she raises an eyebrow, and then he feels the need to explain.

“Without her, I’m not sure I would have seen what Meredith was. I’d like to think so, but Hawke... she forced change. Her methods were extreme, but she did change things. I’ve never met anyone quite like her, except perhaps the Hero of Ferelden.” _And you_ , he almost adds, but he feels like he’d be saying too much. Besides, Yvaine is... kinder. Less broken.

She nods, her face set, and then she swallows. “And I killed her.”

“No.” He finds he’s leaning forwards, looking into her eyes, and she watches him in surprise. “The Nightmare did that. You brought yourself and your team out of the Fade, alive.” She’s staring at him now, but he continues, “No-one else could have done that. I certainly couldn’t have.”

She seems to struggle finding her words, and then she speaks. “You actually believe these things you’re saying, don’t you?”

Of course he does. “It’s my job to be honest,” he tells her simply.

She smiles; it shakes, but it’s a relief to see. And then the moment is gone, and she asks, “Does it ever get easier? Sending people to... well.” She leans an elbow on the desk, a hand against her face.

He has to take a moment to consider his answer, but he tells her bluntly, “No. And it shouldn’t. I doubt it ever gets better.”

“Hm. Do many people come to you for comfort?” She brushes a lock of hair from her forehead, looks at his hands on the table.

He gives her a wan smile of his own. “No, not many.”

“I can’t think why.”

“I trust the sarcasm is a positive sign.” When that raises a twitch of her lips, he continues, “We were always going to lose people. You were given an impossible choice, and you saved many more than died at Adamant. If you’d died in the Fade, we’d have no chance of sealing the Breach.” She still sits with such misery on her face that he has to add, “Yvaine, you couldn’t have stayed.”

It’s true, but part of him thinks that he’d say anything if she’d just look at him.

Moments pass, and he hears her swallow, exhale. Then at last her eyes meet his, and she says, “Have you ever considered a career change? You could replace Mother Giselle. Give everyone spiritual guidance. Cheer them up, that sort of thing.”

He sighs. He should be glad to see her cheer restored, and he is, but this - it seems that her mask is back on. His chance is gone, and all he can do now is respond in kind. “I had quite enough ‘spiritual guidance’ in the Chantry.”

She snorts. He can’t help it; he wonders what would provoke such a reaction, and it must show in his face, because she says, “Sorry. It was your tone. Fereldans are... Fereldans are funnier.”

“I see.” He doesn’t, but there’s little else he can say. The words he’s been meaning to say, the reason he came to find her, fall from his lips: “You weren’t too forward, in your letter.”

“I... What?” It’s so rare to see her wrongfooted; usually that’s her job.

“I’m expressing an opinion on the matter. I consider you a friend, too.”

She brightens with the words, and her smile is something more genuine this time. The adrift woman of before is gone.

He makes the decision. He’ll tell her. He needs to. She’s the Inquisitor, and he can’t pretend it isn’t happening. She must have seen it, anyway. The shaking of his hands, his agitation. She was in a Circle; she must know at least a little of the templars, even if the lyrium is a closely-guarded secret. The story forming in her head, the image of him she has, is fundamentally incomplete. If she hasn’t turned away after Kirkwall, maybe she...

He opens his mouth and it nearly comes out. But this isn’t the time. This isn’t about him, and it never has been.

He allows the moment to stand, and wonders whether he should.


	16. Gloves

A couple of days after that exceedingly awkward conversation, it snows. Unsurprising, really, but it happens less than you’d expect - snow tends to stay, this high in the Frostbacks.

She’s crunching her way back after after a particularly nasty fight in the Hinterlands, trying to ignore the stinging in her hand and waiting for her mana to come back, when she sees a figure by the gates. A very tall, very furry figure. She finds a smile coming to her face, and she picks up her pace slightly, squinting against the snow.

She’s seeing the tail-end of a conversation. Cullen speaks to an elven recruit, telling her firmly, “If you’d pass on that the message was received, that would be best. I’ll speak to her myself when I have the chance. Thank you.” The recruit leaves. He turns, obviously hearing her footsteps, and raises a brow. “Herald.”

“Cullen!” she returns brightly. “I see you’re out enjoying the” - a couple of snowflakes land on her eyelashes, and she blinks furiously - “fine Fereldan weather.”

His eyes soften, and it’s the smallest thing, the barest hint of a smile - and then it’s gone as he looks past her.

“Commander,” Dorian says as he reaches where they’re standing. “Dressed for a blizzard as usual, I see.” He pats Cullen on the shoulder companionably and walks on, all without missing a beat. Yvaine can’t blame him: it’s been bitterly cold, and he’s handled it well, but it’s been getting to him. She’s heard his teeth chattering a few times, and there’s a raw, pinker tinge underneath the brownness of his skin. He probably wants to get close to the nearest fire and stay there. She can’t blame him - she feels similar.

Sera and Varric seem to be engaged in some kind of amused argument about bows. Varric gives them a nod, but he and Sera carry on.

Cullen watches them go in evident bemusement, then returns his gaze to her.

She swipes more snow away from her brows and eyelashes, and she sees the frown that appears on his face. “What’s that?”

He’s looking at her hand, assessing as always. She says sheepishly, “It’s... it’s from a branch. Bit of a scratch, but I was jumping out of the way of a wyvern. Coordination isn’t my strong suit when there’s a dragonling trying to bite me on the rear.”

The frown is still there. There’s a line he gets between his eyebrows, just so, and she resists the urge to reach out and smooth it away. She’d probably get glared at for her trouble. “May I - ?” he asks, raising a hand.

She sighs and passes him the offending appendage. It’s more of a scratch than a cut, below her knuckles, but there was a deceptive amount of blood. Easily healable, if she hadn’t used all her mana on warming spells and fighting. She really should have listened to him about devising lower-energy offensive strategies. And carrying more lyrium. And... Dammit. Perhaps she should just have listened to him more in general.

He examines her hand, holding it carefully between both of his, turning it over to see how far the injury has stretched. It’s methodical, the way everything he does seems to be. He looks at her. “This is why I wear gloves.” It’s matter-of-fact, and it takes her a half-second to hear the _I told you so_ behind it.

“I do, I just forgot to - “ She glares at him. “You know what they’ll say, don’t you? Cullen Rutherford, commander of the Inquisition and the smuggest man in Thedas.”

He looks back to her hand, but there’s a definite smirk growing on his face. His touch is gentle but firm, even though she can’t help noticing -

“Are you all right?” she asks. When he gives her a puzzled look, she says, “Your hands are shaking.” He doesn’t seem cold, either. Bloody Fereldans. They're apparently made for this sort of weather.

Something darkens in his face. It’s sudden and startling, as though the sun has just gone behind a cloud. His eyes are cold, his jaw sets, and his voice is formal as he says, “I’m fine, Herald.” He drops her hand, and nodding to it, says, “I’d have that seen to by a healer, though a poultice would do just as well.” He’s far too polite to say it, but _would you mind pissing right off_ is in the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin, the way he can’t quite meet her eye. It reminds her horribly of those early days in Haven, when he seemed alternately baffled and embarrassed by her and she couldn’t find the right thing to say that would let her understand him. She’d nearly given up hope back then.

She takes that as her cue to leave. “Oh, I think that’s Solas,” she says, false-cheerfully.

Their resident Fade enthusiast is actually nowhere to be seen. Cullen opens his mouth to say something, but if he manages it, the words are blown away by the wind, and she trudges onwards, trying to get some speed up against the snow. She wonders what in the Void she’s done wrong now. Maker, it’s one step forwards, two back with them. _The Herald of Andraste - intimidating, leader of the Inquisition, and usually sighted with a Fade-glowing foot firmly in her sacred mouth._

* * *

It doesn’t stay quite so awkward. Oh, it’s still _awkward_ , because she has a bad habit of opening her mouth and saying, well, anything, and he’s Cullen, but he seems to forgive her for her invisible mistake. He still doesn’t look at her much during the war meeting the next day, but he’s brisk, professional. He’s good at hiding it most of the time, but once or twice she catches his eye, and in his face she sees something like... guilt. That’s all she can call it. What in Andraste’s name can he have to be _guilty_ for? She thought they’d got the Kirkwall mess over with. And he says that she’s fond of self-flagellation.

She’s feeling it, too, which doesn’t even make sense. She didn’t do anything - at least nothing too egregious, as far as she can tell. Maker knows she’s always been rather good at fucking things up, but usually she at least has some idea of where, precisely, the fuckage has occurred.

He’s polite but distant, and she doesn’t make her usual effort to bother him outside of war councils. He walks down the corridor, his head bowed and a hand to the back of his neck. She watches him go, wondering why the man who’s meant to be winning their battles for them looks so very defeated.

She rubs her hands over her arms, suddenly feeling cold even with leathers, robes and a scarf, and tries to remember the man who smiled at her and called her a friend, who didn’t even blink at seeing her half-asleep and frazzled. She wonders where he’s gone, and why.

* * *

She gets her answer a few hours later.

Anyone wiser would leave him to his brooding, but she’s never been particularly bright, as Senior Enchanter Isambard always liked to remind her. It’s not just her curiosity, either. It seems like he’s hurting, and she’s never been particularly good at standing by and watching a friend in pain. She pokes her nose in - it’s an old, bad habit. It’s got her into trouble enough times in the past, but it’s led to good things, too, like the time she found Isambard’s secret fudge stash. It... may have gone mysteriously missing. She was twelve, and a weak, weak apprentice.

So she finds herself ambling across the battlements, nodding and smiling to the soldiers. One or two offer the odd “morning,” and she returns it cheerfully, even with the trepidation building in her chest. Somehow, her footsteps take her towards Cullen’s office until she’s standing outside his door, raising a hand to knock and... Hesitating.

Oh, for the love of... She shakes her head at her own stupidity, and then knocks.

“Enter.” It’s quick, not quite brusque but close.

The door creaks as she opens it. The office is darker than usual, the sun beginning to set, and it takes her a moment to spot Cullen. He’s standing, hands planted on his desk as if he’s afraid he’ll fall otherwise. His shoulders are slumped, and when he straightens, looking up at her, there are dark circles under his eyes, his skin even paler than usual - paler even than hers, in fact.

He inhales, his eyes widening slightly. “Yv - _Herald_.”

The slip makes her pause in the doorway, and she just looks at him, trying to figure it out. He looks like a man haunted - harrowed, and not in the mage sense - and she’s beginning to suspect it may not be something she’s done at all. “Cullen? What’s wrong?”

She sees him hesitate, and for a moment she almost wonders if he’s going to lie to her. No, she thinks. Cullen is a lot of things, but not a liar. He might just be the bluntest man she’s ever met, and here, now, that could be a blessing. “I...” Another inhale, and she can see him steeling himself. “As commander of the Inquisition, there’s something I need to tell you.” He adds in a mutter, “Something I should probably have told you earlier.”

She listens as he stumbles through an explanation, tension in every line of his body. He tells her of templars taking lyrium to augment their skills - something many in the Circle had suspected, but they’d never been certain of it - and then tells her of the withdrawal. She watches him, trying not to let her shock show on her face, thinking: of course. The pallor unusual even for a Fereldan, the tremors in his hands, his almost constant tiredness. She thinks of all the times she’s spoken to him with lyrium on her breath, little blue vials clinking at her belt, and winces. And he’d stood there, calmly talking her through ways to more effectively ration them, advising her as always. And then he tells her...

_Some die. Others go mad._

She’s across the room before she knows what she’s doing. “Cullen, are you saying this could kill you?”

She’s surprised by the tremor in her voice, but she suddenly has a clear image of it: an empty desk, a space at the war table, and all the days after without being able to mock him, to find him and ask him stupid questions. It leaves something sharp and tight in her chest, and she’s not entirely certain she can look at him.

His answer is matter-of-fact, so very understated. So very him, and she wants to shout at him, to grab him by that furry collar and shake, even as she marvels at his strength. “It hasn’t yet.”

“Cullen, that’s... Do you remember what I said about you not being very comforting?” Her voice is strained.

That brings the hint of a smile to his face, pained and small as it is. The little victories, Yvaine reminds herself. Then it’s gone, and he’s telling her about his contingency plans. He must have sat and devised this with Cassandra. He must have prepared himself to turn his back on everything they’ve built here.

As he speaks, he looks to her with that fear in his eyes, as if he’s waiting for judgement. As if he thinks she really is going to shake him by the collar and tell him what he’s doing is stupid, as if she’ll kick him ignominiously out of their party of heretics or, even worse, tell him to start taking the lyrium again.

She remembers walking out of the Circle, so afraid of what the world outside would contain and yet thrilling at the prospect. She remembers Elise’s words: _If I die, I die free_. The backbreaking _work_ of it all. The blood and sweat and tears of this Inquisition, and this mark that has a good chance of killing her, and yet most nights when she looks back, she thinks that it’s worth it. All of it.

Perhaps some would call what he’s doing stupid. The word they’re actually looking for is _brave_.

She watches him, thinking that once again, she’s been taking him for granted. She’s never seen him falter like this, never seen him afraid in this way. She became used to his steadiness and his surety, his presence at her side, and she’s allowed him to smooth over the rough edges, to clean up after her awkwardness and impulsiveness. And all the while, he’s been fighting this. She always knew he was strong, but this is different.

He asks her whether what he’s doing is right for the Inquisition, and then he looks at her. And waits.

“This isn’t my decision,” she manages, shrinking under the weight of his gaze. Though she certainly knows what her answer would be.

“You’re the Inquisitor. Of course it’s your decision.” His voice is sharper than she suspects he intended. He scrapes a hand through his hair, shaking his head - but she gets the sense it’s at his own perceived stupidity, not hers.

She supposes she sees his point. It could affect the Inquisition, after all. But something still makes her step forwards and take his arm. She keeps her grip so gentle he could easily shake it off, or step away. “Bugger the Inquisition, and me, and everything else. What do you want?”

He looks at her in surprise, and she wonders how often he’s been asked that question. She hopes someone has. He gives her his answer, slow, hesitant with the words, and she listens. And in the end:

She says, “I think what you’re doing is very brave. And if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

He’s spent the entire conversation looking like he’s waiting for a blow, or for insults: silent, so resigned he seems half-numb to it. But he raises his head and looks at her properly now.

“So..." she tries, "I give you my blessing, if that’s what you need.”

“I - Thank you.” His voice is rough, and the words seem utterly genuine.

“Not a problem. I’ve seen what you can do. I have very good reason to believe in you.” And then she leaves him to it, uncertain if she’s doing the right thing.

She makes some of the guards laugh with a quip about falling off the battlements if she’s not careful, mocks Swords & Shields mercilessly with Varric. Then she heads down to the library, gives Dorian a quick greeting and tucks a stack of books under her arm. Lyrium, histories of the templar order...

Dorian looks over her shoulder. “Might I suggest this? Banned by the Chantry for years. Too, well, informative.” He presses something called _Confessions of a Lyrium Addict_ into her hands, and for a moment she wonders if he knows. Then he’s breezing away, and the chance to ask is gone.

She doesn’t sleep much that night. _It hasn’t yet_ is no guarantee for the future. Maker. Stupid courageous bastard.

* * *

 Cullen seemed better this morning, and it doesn’t sound like he’s busy, so the next day finds her wandering into his office and saying,“So. Gloves. Do you have any recommendations?”

He looks at her somewhat incredulously, trying to get his head round the nonsequitur, and then his face breaks into a smile.

She laughs with him, jokes about the Tevinter trend for unnecessary fancy buckles. And she’s surprised, but not as surprised as she should be, when he presses a little box into her hands after a war room meeting, with something about “I like to see the Inquisitor properly supplied.” Gloves, soft leather, and a deep, dark red. A perfect match for her robes, and when she tries them on, they’re thick and warm.

She squints at him overdramatically. “All right, do you have a merchant here that you keep bothering with my whims?”

He laughs, husky and a little surprised. It’s sounds just a bit like absolution.


	17. Epiphanies

She can’t help it: she’s always been too fond of bothering him. She comes to see him after a war room meeting, wandering into his office, sticking out a foot and pulling the chair he never uses to her. She plonks herself into it and grins at him. “Lovely day, isn’t it? The birds are singing, the sun’s warm and the giant hole in the sky is spitting out fewer demons than usual.”

“Hm?” He’s frowning down at papers, probably neck-deep in some strategy or other. It’s likely troop movements. It’s always troop movements, except when he’s going over supply lines with Josephine and intelligence with Leliana. Or when he’s trying not to roll his eyes at bad jokes and very sportingly putting up with her idiocy. He looks up, seeming startled. “I... Oh. Yes. A little hot for my tastes, but yes.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Of course it would be. You’re wearing half a... what was it, lion?”

“Lion,” he confirms with a slight nod, eyes still on his papers. His eyebrows raise, and then he grits his teeth.

“Cullen?”

“Yes?”

“What is it? You’ve got the expression I assumed after half a bucket of prunes.”

He returns his gaze to her, and now he really does look startled. “Why would you - ?”

“There was a dare in the apprentice dormitories. I mean, it was a small bucket, and I won the sovereign, but I’m not sure it was worth it.” She gives him an exaggerated grimace. “Not one of my finer moments.”

He’s smiling at her - for Maker’s sake, while she’s talking about the _prune bet_ , and _why_ did she let that out of her mouth - and it’s gentle. It softens his face, even with the scar, and just for a moment.... just for a moment, she can almost see what all those moonstruck recruits go on about. It suits him, and she doesn’t see it nearly enough.

“I...” She winces, shifting awkwardly. “I have no idea why I told you about that. It certainly doesn’t do much for my Inquisitorly dignity. Please, ignore me. I’m sure it’s what you do most of the time anyway...”

“I don’t ignore you,” he says, reaching for his quill. He dashes off a signature on something.

“Then you must have Andraste’s patience.”

“Or perhaps I just enjoy listening.”

She tries to say something smart, but her mind has gone a little blank. It’s strange to hear it like that, put so bluntly. It’s the kind of thing he’d do: refuse to play along at the worst possible moment, leaving her grasping for a decent line. And yes, she’s surprised. She assumed most people just returned their attention at odd intervals, when they heard particular words like “Inquisition” and “food.” But he’s never been like that: his focus always leaves her feeling a little self-conscious and far too important. “Oh. Well, there’s that, too.” She tries for a smile.

When he looks at her, something crosses his face, and he almost looks... caught-out. Maybe she’s been too obvious with her own surprise, given him a clue he’s said something that matters. Then it’s back to his usual, put-upon commander look. “Yes, well. Apparently some of our recruits have found a group of mages hiding in the Hinterlands. They were being harassed by red templars.”

She feels the smile drop from her face. Now she understands his expression. “They made it out all right?”

He nods. “Yes. But I’ll need to send a few more people. They need a bigger escort, they can’t just...” He sighs, rubbing at his forehead.

“Let me guess: they went on a little unsanctioned rescue mission?”

Another nod. “I can’t fault their intentions. I just wish they’d written for backup, or... Something.” He leans on his desk, looking awfully tired, too old for his age.

She doesn’t know why, but she leans forwards, reaching across and resting her hand on his. “They wanted to avoid more casualties in this war. Surely you know what that’s like.” When he looks at her, she smiles at him. “You should be proud. It’ll be your training that got them out alive.”

That rare, soft smile returns, and just for a moment, she feels his fingers curl around hers. “Thank you.” Then he tenses, his face changing, and hastily looks back to his documents.

She’s probably done something wrong. She’s good at fucking things up. She hastily pulls her hand away, mentally kicking herself, and tries to keep her voice casual when she says, “I didn’t just come here to talk to you about the weather.”

Now he looks at her. “Inquisitor?”

Her heart sinks, and she wants to glare at him. Instead she says, “It’s about the Emerald Graves. I hear it’s positively swarming with Freemen.”

* * *

 .. _.Oh_.

He doesn’t know when the thought occurred to him, but now it won’t leave his mind. Perhaps it was when she walked out of the Fade, bright and so utterly alive. Perhaps it was when he saw her vulnerable and barefaced in her quarters, soft in the morning light. Or perhaps it was when she discovered his withdrawals and called him _brave_ , of all things. _If anyone can do it, it’s you_.

He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. All he knows is that now, when they’re in war room meetings, he’s quietly entranced by the shine of sunlight on her hair. One day she comes into his office with two mugs of tea, insisting that she “was just passing through,” but she bends to carefully place one on his table, and he watches the elegant curve of her neck. She smiles at him and he finds himself smiling back without thought, wanting desperately to provoke such a reaction once more again; he’s caught by the gentleness, the kindness of it. He laughs too much at her jokes, if only to see it again.

He wants...

He knows what this is. It’s been a long time, but he knows. He’s surprised his mind even has time for these kind of distractions, but Yvaine has always managed to provoke the strangest reactions from him where no-one else could. It has taken him far too long to notice, but she is beautiful, and she is strong and she... is the _Inquisitor_ , the closest thing he has to a commanding officer. He can’t do this. He can’t even think of it.

But that’s little help when she’s leaning on the edge of his desk, looking at him concernedly. She’s wearing the gloves he gave her. Her fingertips trail along the surface of the desk, long and graceful even in leather, and he tries not to find it distracting. She asks, “Smuggling red lyrium?”

He sighs. “The shipments appear to be in the Emerald Graves. We have limited information, but there were sightings of smugglers and red templars, and we’ve found various communications that would suggest...” He trails off as he sees her expression. She’s watching him with evident concern, and she is for once, worryingly, silent. “You have thoughts?”

She sighs. “You’re out for Samson’s head, aren’t you?”

“That’s far from the case.”

She just watches him levelly, unconvinced. “I mean, I can’t blame you. I would be too, in your position. After what he did to your comrades...”

“ _Yvaine_.”

“What will you do if we can’t find him?”

Bang his head against a few walls, or have a few more nightmares than before. He doesn’t know yet. “I... I have to believe we can.”

She nods. “Then I'll do my best.” She’s pale and solemn in the half-light. He wants to apologise for his sharpness, but a smile is stealing onto her face. “What happens if we end up with them in little smuggler-shaped pieces?”

It’s his turn to sigh. “Then take their letters.”

She nods once, briskly, and then she’s standing, walking to the door. It opens with a creak; she waits there a moment, the sunlight gilding her hair and her shoulders tense, as if she wants to say something. She looks over her shoulder with that slight, worried smile - and then she’s leaving. He watches her go, remembering the letter he was never meant to see.

_I look at you and I see a brave, honourable man, and most importantly, a friend._

It’s more than he deserves. It should be enough.

He wonders, on the night when he wakes from a dream trembling, raising a hand to his mouth and half-expecting it to come away smeared with purple, why it isn’t.

He remembers, suddenly, the walk back to the camp after what happened at Haven. The slowness of it and the weight of her in his arms. Looking down at her, this woman who baffled him and sometimes irritated him, but mostly made his job easier, and thinking of her bravery when she went to face Corypheus. The way she shivered, her skin even paler than it normally was, her cheekbones too sharp, her usual makeup smeared and all but gone in the fight, her lips blue. Brushing her hair away from her face, putting a hand in front of her mouth to check she was still breathing, and having to countenance the thought of losing the Herald to his own stupidity, his lack of foresight. Realizing that this, he could not protect her from.

He has the same sinking feeling in his chest now. Yet now it isn’t the cold or Corypheus he wishes to shield her from, but himself, and that might be far worse.

**Author's Note:**

> After this game kept me sane during a period of illness, I found myself jotting down ideas which sort of accidentally became fic. Updates are in a vague chronological order, but will be of varying length and theme, and more like short stories/ficlets than linear chapters.
> 
> So, I suppose I have [a Tumblr](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com/) now? If you feel like it, follow for the odd ficlet, self-indulgent character musings, news on WIPs and awkward templars. I will also happily take prompts.


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